


Rose Jardin

by MinHart



Series: Flower Garden [1]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 226,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinHart/pseuds/MinHart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is life outside of drugs, ballet, and alcohol. There's a reason to smile outside the little red house; there's a way to breathe without marijuana in your lungs. There's a way for Jongin to be <i>happy</i>—but the man who could show him is a little bit too sad for this lifestyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prometheus' Lighter

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings: Homophobia, age gap (9 yrs), alcoholism and drug use, mental disorders, sexual assault, bullying, accusations of pedophilia, blasphemy, slut shaming, mentions of abuse, self harm, ableism**  
>  Please take these warnings seriously, as there's a couple of scenes that get heavy.  
>  **UPDATE:**  
>  Sequel to Rose Jardin: [Daisy Boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9781181/chapters/21971402)
> 
>  **CHARACTER ART**  
>  Here are some character arts, corresponding to their flowers.  
> [Jongin & Red Roses](http://i.imgur.com/KlQR8ef.jpg)  
> [Yixing & Poppies](http://i.imgur.com/Sr55qRE.jpg)  
> [Chanyeol & Lavenders](http://i.imgur.com/4u4NoTa.jpg)  
> [Sehun & Yellow Roses](http://i.imgur.com/RlAvQp2.jpg)  
> [Lu Han & Asphodels](http://i.imgur.com/tQenlA6.jpg)  
> [Joonmyun & Japanese Cherry Blossoms](http://i.imgur.com/NAzH4Gj.jpg)  
>   
> [A song](https://soundcloud.com/jessica-s-708171113/roses-thorns) composed by [Jessica](https://www.instagram.com/hierarchies/?hl=en) for RJ, thank you for this lovely song darling!  
>   
> , **A Sehun art piece by **[@withstanding.time](https://www.instagram.com/withstanding.time/?hl=en)**** , **a Jongin video edit by[@kyungsootrash](https://www.instagram.com/kyungsootrash/?hl=en)** and **a painting of pointe shoes by[@yugsoo](https://www.instagram.com/yugsoo/?hl=en)** bless you guys for these masterpieces!  
> [Done! This is fanart for @yeolitahaze 's 'Rose Jardin'. If you like EXO, Please check it out when it's online bc it will be amazing from what I've seen!! Hope you like it Tracy~ ^^](https://www.instagram.com/p/BH-nt9gAWzX/)  
>  A photo posted by @withstanding.time  
> 
>
>>   
> [Artwork; en pointe I drew this for Tracy ( @yeolitahaze ) and "Rose Jardin" I can't wait to read it. ](https://www.instagram.com/p/BHa63VjhSLk/)  
> A photo posted by @yugsoo 
>
>> [Jongin for Rose Jardin by @yeolitahaze my peach](https://www.instagram.com/p/BIUMCvQAe7I/)  
> A photo posted by @kyungsootrash
> 
>  **THANKS**  
>  Special thanks to **Michelle** and **Marissa** for helping me throughout it all. This would not even be half the story it is now without you guys. I cannot thank you enough for fixing up this mess of a fic into a coherent reading. I'm sorry that it was so much work for you all, but I'm grateful that you didn't give up on me. You guys have guided me through it all. Thank you for putting your hours into this and shooting me ideas and advice when I was stuck. I owe my everything to you all for correcting my silly grammar mistakes and plot holes. We did it guys! ❤  
>  Thank you **Eden, Armani** and **Cindy** for giving me feedback when I needed it most. It really helped me. Thank you Armani for helping me as much as you could with editing despite your busy schedule. You guys are the best!
> 
> Thank you to all my **friends** for letting me rant to them these past long months. You guys kept me excited and encouraged me to continue with my fic when I was in my bad moods. I'm thankful for those who made fanarts and edits for this story even when the full thing wasn't out. It really kept me motivated!

There’s something terrifying about ballet.

But he’s not really sure _why._

These days, it seems like only God knows. It’s probably true—no religion or shrine could bare an answer. These days, it seems as if ballet is the only thing that exists in this world. In those dark hours, Jongin wonders if it’s better that way.

Jongin can never place a finger on it, or come even close to understanding it. Maybe it’s the way those paintings and photographs are arched and angled to stare at him when he makes his way down the hall. Perhaps, with Vaslav Nijinsky boring his calculative eyes into Jongin’s chest, or Rudolf Nureyev’s smile never leaving the beechwood walls, not even in death. But according to Joonmyun, it’s the other way around, death would never leave Nureyev. And that, is what made him a brilliant dancer.

Jongin wants to be brilliant too, even if all he can do for now is smile through all the shattered toes and bruised skin.

Only God knows.

_R       I       g  h  t?_

 

 

 

♕♕♕

Crouching in the corner of dust, he holds his lower face tightly, so that the sneeze will subside. Sneezing is out of place. Sneezing and waking up Sehun is nerve-wrecking. To wake up Sehun is not worth the comfort of walking with flat feet, it’s not worth it at all.

When he thinks his allergies are gone, he takes a cautious step, an _allégro_ , towards his bunk. He winces when his ankle brushes pass one of their dance bags—they all look the same, feel the same—and waits for Sehun to jolt up and thrash around, maybe throw something.

Sehun snores.

It’s these nights that Jongin’s grateful for the bottom bunk, where he can crawl onto the lower bed quickly, without squeezing his eyes shut and hoping his dangling legs won’t hit someone when he’s climbing up to the top bunk. Other nights though, Jongin hates the bottom bunk, because he sees everyone who enters and leaves the room. The light shining its faint colors on Jongin is one thing, it’s another thing being forced to keep count of the times Sehun slips outside with hesitant, arched toes muted with silence.

But every night is the same—Luhan’s bed remains unclaimed.

Pulling the wool blankets over his head, he ignores the scratchy material digging into his naked thighs and arms. They aren’t the best blankets out there for comfort, but Jongin finds himself agreeing with Sehun that they served a better purpose than their temperamental heater, which only has one scorching setting if it even decides to work at all.

Pressing his face into his pillow and wrapping lazy arms around it, he breathes out a light sigh, hoping the aches from earlier today will fade and intertwine with sleep.

♕♕♕

“Hey, wake up.”

There’s a faint nudge at his ear, prodding his warm skin. Jongin stirs, and a smidgen of a wrinkle in between his dark brows starts to show, along with a low whine that laid to rest at the back of his throat.

“Not yet,” he murmurs in detached hope that the person waking him up has at least one sympathetic bone in their body.

“You bastard.”

Or not.

“Wake up, you are not,” the blanket is torn off of him, “sleeping in, again.” There’s another body slipping onto his bed, tugging at the hem of Jongin’s sleeves.

“Sehunnie...” Jongin’s voice is nearly inaudible, but he tugs a few strings of weak effort to heave himself up, mindful of the low bed ceiling.

“Good...morning?”

“Mornin’,” Sehun replies slowly, eying him with a wary look. “You pulled extra bones that you don’t have, huh?” Sehun himself is still sleepy too, with ashy hair tousled and sprouting in different directions. His sweater hangs off his shoulders pitifully, and Jongin thinks he sees faint block letters that spell out SEOUL. It’s missing the ‘O’ though, and its letters are peeling.

“Extra bones?” Jongin asks, though he knows he’s not going to get an answer. His eyes flicker towards Luhan’s bed, and to no one’s surprise, it hasn’t been touched. “I’ve been pulling extra bones, huh.” He pulls on the ends of his blankets closer to his lower body, as if to hide from the cold air.

Sehun’s bottom lip tuts out when he scoots over Jongin’s legs. “You know what I mean. Extra bones—extra practice. You’re practicing too much.” He looks pointedly at a constellation of bruises near Jongin’s elbow, courtesy of flirting with a migraine.

“I have to make it.”

“Make what?”

“You know what.”

Sehun grabs a handful of his own sweater, pulling it up so it’s resting comfortably on his shoulders. Jongin peers over his head, squinting at the small window neighbored by their closet doors. It’s barely morning, a bit of dusty night clashing with some sunlight and creating an awe-inspiring kind of view.

“Why are we up so early?”

“I wanted to,” Sehun replies simply. “Plus, I want to get out before Luhan-hyung gets back home. Let’s not run into him, okay?”

“But I—”

“We can get breakfast at the cafe you like. The weather’s perfect for a walk. Or we can grab something in the kitchen...” Sehun suggests lightly, but even Jongin knows Sehun’s desperate. Jongin stares at Sehun with blank eyes, fine lines forming around chapped lips.

He gets up anyways without another word, not because he has nothing to say, but he thinks it’s best not to say it.

Sehun’s eyes light up comically, accompanied with the flutter of lashes that brush past too-sharp cheekbones. Hurrying, he throws Jongin’s itchy blanket to the side, and tugs him to the bathroom.

“We can use the bathroom together,” he whispers. “I shower, you brush. Then we switch, okay?”

“Okay.”

He thinks Sehun’s grip on Jongin’s wrist is too tight and unfamiliar, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

The shared bathroom between the three boys is small, with some of the paint chipped and the rest peeling off the walls to reveal mold and skeleton walls. The mirrors are cabinets, too, and Sehun and Jongin share one. It’s cluttered with secret gum stashes and rolled up used tooth paste. It’s normal, he thinks, it’s a normal boy’s cabinet.

_Normal._

Luhan has his own. It’s right next to theirs, but they don’t dare touch it; let alone open it. Sometimes when they’re in the bathroom washing their faces and lathering their skin in body wash, Luhan barges in without a second’s notice and snatches something from his cabinet. Sehun often tells Jongin that he has half a mind to snatch the handle of the mirror cabinet and see what ‘ _filth and trashy secrets hyung is hiding’,_ but they both know better than that. Jongin thinks he has a vague idea of what it could be, or maybe it’s nothing at all.

(Bullshit.)

Sehun grabs Jongin’s neon orange toothbrush and flips open the cap of the paste. “I got this for you, Jonginnie.” It’s probably just a kind gesture, but they both know it’s to avoid any accidents. Nonetheless, he smiles up at the boy, who has grown maybe a few centimeters or more taller than him. He’s careful in handing Jongin the toothbrush, too. Sehun’s eyes turns to those of fondness, his usual knitted brows going slant and his rough and careless voice almost delicate. Jongin wonders if it’s for him or for someone else. _Someone else._

“I’m okay, Sehun,” Jongin says softly.

“I know.”

No, he doesn’t.

He turns the bathroom light on, a sickly yellowish tint to it that makes everyone uncomfortable. They should have gotten used to it by now, six years and running leaves a lot of time to take in the faint lights. Though, they never did, and probably never will.

Sehun’s grin is of a Cheshire cat, only more weak and ill. It’s the last thing of him that Jongin sees before Sehun grabs his own shirt hem and pulls it over his head, exhibiting alabaster skin and bones that they’re all used to. Almost take pride in. The ribs are visible in numbers of threes, at least, on Sehun. That’s three medals, Jongin thinks, three medals embed with a language they all know. Of tanking, calorie counting, and fasting. They know the language by the book; they speak the language unspoken.

“Keep me company?” Sehun inquires, bunching up his shirt into a half-assed ball and tossing it into the hamper that’s in dire need of stitching. “Conversations.”

“I always do,” he replies, just as quietly. “Don’t use all the hot water, Luhan-hyung might kill us.”

“He might kill me, but not you, Jongin.” It sounds almost cold.

Jongin sets the toilet seat down respectfully, mindful of the sounds and porcelain. He pulls his knees up to his chest, his shorts slipping down his thighs just a bit, enough to show a bit of yellowish blue splotches—bruises—across his knee caps. He frowns, brushing a calloused thumb across the patches, already hearing Joonmyun-hyung’s stressed and highly exaggerated voice scolding him.

‘ _Y_ _ou’re meant to be pretty’,_  he’d say.

“I’m meant to be pretty,” Jongin finds himself repeating fake-Joonmyun’s words.

“What’s that?” Sehun asks loudly from the shower, and from here Jongin can hear the taller one hiss when the shower head spurts out. Jongin mutters back a reply that probably lies between ‘nothing’ and ‘something’. He traces his bruises over and over again, not even wincing when the sensitivity begins and ends.

“Sehun.”

“Huh?” Sehun’s voice is muffled by water gurgles. Jongin hasn’t brushed his teeth, the toothbrush still sits on its backside on the counter. “You need something?”

“Are bruises pretty?”

For a while, Sehun doesn’t reply, and Jongin wonders if it’s because he didn’t hear him the first time. Perched on top of the toilet seat, he raises his voice by a little bit. “I said, are bruises pretty—,”

“I heard you the first time, Jongin.” Sehun’s voice sounds clear. “I heard you.” He sounds as if he’s standing out of the water’s way, and the way it’s hollowed out and sort of blanky sounds as if he’s facing the walls. Jongin eyes the shower curtains warily, seeing the slender silhouette of Sehun’s bones and skin. Sehun is... _Sehun is beautiful_ —at least, that’s what Jongin thinks, especially when he’s all alone dancing. Jongin wants to be beautiful, too, and he wonders if that’s why he stayed with Sehun all these years, or should it be something else, someone else?

“Are they?”

“No.”

Jongin gulps, the lump settling down with a fool’s perspective. “But Luhan-hyung said...” _Luhan-hyung says they’re pretty_. Whenever Jongin’s shrieks follow suit with the banging knees and elbows against the glass in the studio room, Luhan laughs. Sometimes, he’d crouch down to eye-level but never really look at him in the eye, and point out his bruises and cuts with a small voice that rings millions of conversation.

“ _They’re the only thing that makes us beautiful.”_

“ _Really?”_

“ _The stage consists of two things, Jongin. Cracked toes and bruises. Pain is good.”_

Jongin wonders if that still remains true.

“Luhan-hyung is wrong,” Sehun replies coolly. “Whatever bullshit that guy spouts...it’s...it’s--just don’t listen to him.” Jongin winces, and he’s grateful that Sehun can’t see. He hears more splashing and rusty shower handles being turned. The bruises on his knees feel a lot more noticeable, and no matter how far he stretches his shorts down, he still catches that glimpse of last night’s _échappé_ and _fondu_. Jongin nods to nobody, toying with his frayed hem. But Luhan hyung’s never wrong, he thinks to himself, and only himself.

When the water runs down to nothing but splutters, Sehun rips the curtain open, his damp hair clinging to his temple and forehead like leeches. Jongin stares at him in awe, of a slender figure that doesn’t need any bruises or cracked toes to be pretty. When he smiles, his cupid’s bow above his lip distorts with beads of water dripping down his skin. Jongin offers him a towel with his free hand; the other clutching onto his knee with a death grip.

“I didn’t use all the hot water,” Sehun says. “Take a good one, okay?”

“You’re going to be waiting here, right?” Jongin asks, not expecting much of a verbal answer. Sehun nods, hastily wrapping a towel over his body. A nod is all Jongin needs. He unbuttons his shirt with numb fingers, quick to slip out of them and wiggle out of his shorts. He doesn’t have a body nearly as flawless as Sehun, and that itself is a shame.

“You can whisper, or shout when it happens,” Sehun offers. “I’ll—,”

“Hold my hand?”

“Yeah. I’ll hold your hand.”

Sehun turns on the shower head for him, like he always does every morning, alert enough to remind Jongin not to stand directly under the water or it’ll be a surprise. The other boy runs soothing touches on Jongin’s wrists, especially where his wrist bone protrudes. It’s a habit, they’ve decided. It’s a habit.

It’s an _obsession_ , but they don’t have to know.

The shower water soaks Jongin’s mass of curls and knotty hair, darkening its shade and loosening all the mess. He can’t help but sigh when he feels himself unwind from the core and out; his ribs and spine uncurling and shaking off the dust and blood. The shower beats against his ears, almost like a monotonous drumming effect. He’s grateful, at least, because it lets him think in comfort with Sehun humming to one of Tchaikovsky’s pieces—something in B-flat minor, who knows.

The bruises that are scattered across Jongin’s knees and ankles seems to ring a separate misfortune than the rest, the result of too hasty and rash bends. Too close to the floor, too close to the mirror. Muffling his cries had been one thing, but dancing in the dark was another crime.

And it’s not like the instructors don’t know, they just choose not to say anything.

_Don’t over-think, don’t think, don’t—_

The shower water drips.

Clashing into the shower tiles and curtains, Jongin visibly sees them breaking its shape and splattering across the surface, one by one. _It’s happening again,_ he thinks wearily. The sounds warp after everything slows down; the pitter-patter sounding more like nuclear bombs dropping against the shell of his ear.

“Sehun...” he whispers, a weak hand grasping onto a fistful of the shower curtain. “Sehun… hold… my hand.”

_Sehun._

It’s scary to Jongin, how holding hands does so much for him. Sehun may be a bit of a snarling bastard sometimes, especially to the other dancers and to the world. But in their little realm; their little room of three rickety beds and a broken furnace, to each other, they’re all they’ve got. Luhan has his cigarettes and flexibility that lands him a bed with a man or woman, whoever hauls in the most jewelry and rings. But Jongin just wants to hold hands.

And Sehun just wants to be good.

The water’s too loud, and it takes a few tries for Sehun to catch on and thrust a hand into the shower. “Sehun… Sehun. Sehun,” Jongin gasps, accidentally sucking in water and he ends up choking. It’s so slow, God damn it, it’s so fucking slow and Jongin wants to scream.

The water drops that dribbles down his naked body painstakingly slow.

The curtain is torn apart abruptly, but Jongin can’t tell.

There’s a dab of toothpaste on Sehun’s lower lip, but neither of them gives a damn. He mouths something frantically. Jongin shuts his eyes and squeezes them even harder when he feels Sehun’s hand clasp his own. He knows the procedures. Sit and don’t talk, for however long it takes.

Jongin turns towards Sehun, bringing his legs to his chest is inevitably a slow process. Some of the water crashes against Sehun’s forehead, but he doesn’t seem to mind—or if he does, he doesn’t show it. His jaw goes slack, and Jongin’s in awe at how he can almost pinpoint all the muscles working and all the bones twitching when Sehun does so.

It’s haunting.

Luhan is going to yell at them for wasting all the hot water, Jongin realizes numbly as the water continues to beat down on him. Jongin feels his face getting hot, his cheeks of bruised peaches. He doesn’t like getting yelled at—no, no he _hates_ getting yelled at.

With his other hand, Jongin tries to reach for Sehun’s other hand. A simple action of moving bones should take only a few seconds, maybe less. Except time isn’t working; not his own.

_Not his own._

With everything so slow—the sounds, water, and bodies, Jongin’s thoughts are rapid and hasty. He touches upon recent episodes of these minor attacks, and some not so recent, dating back to when he was only a eight-year-old clutching on a set of his only belongings.

The hollowed out corners of his mind are paved with cobwebs and Luhan ruffling up his head. Luhan doesn’t hold his hands when he freaks out. Luhan just watches.

Maybe it’s two minutes of silence, he’s not counting. But he thinks so, because when he opens his eyes the water isn’t so slow when it drizzles. The tension in Jongin’s neck seems to unravel like frayed ship rope, but it doesn’t leave his white stained knuckles and protruding veins that threatens to detonate.

“Sehun,” Jongin’s voice is scratchy. “It’s over, I think.”

Sehun shoots up so fast, a part of Jongin worries he’ll get whiplash. “Did you...did you get stressed again?” he asks, as if he’s walking on eggshells. When Jongin doesn’t say anything, he breathes out between gritted teeth. “Was it because of what I said? About your bruises not being pretty?” Sehun takes a quick glance at the blemished skin on the boy’s knees.

“No,” he whispers. “I mean, yes...I...”

“Lying is bad, Jongin.”

“It happened when I was practicing last night,” Jongin looks away, voice turning dry and forced. “My arms and legs got long—it felt long and I couldn’t...it messed up my failli. You know? The jump I do before the spin with Soojung.” A streak of white anger distorts Sehun’s face, and Jongin winces, pulling his hand away. _Please don’t yell at me, please don’t yell at me, please don’t._

“What does it have to do with your bruises?” Sehun asks, his lips in a fine line, aged with worry.

“Luhan-hyung said—,” Jongin starts with a cracked voice. “I mean. Joonmyun-hyung will yell at me for getting bruises. And I don’t like getting...getting yelled at. But Luhan says it’s okay. It’s okay to hurt myself, right?” Yes, yes he can see it now. Luhan will come back with a smile stitched on his pretty face and he’ll pat Jongin—tell him he did good. He’ll kiss him for every bruise he got, he’ll be _praised._

_Praise is all I want._

“Luhan is crazy,” Sehun says, almost incredulously. “Do you...you really take a psychopath’s word over mine? Me, Jongin?” he doesn’t let him answer, standing up with a stiff posture and water-stained sweatshirt. Sehun yanks on the handle of shower head, shutting the water off. He doesn’t let him answer at all; he doesn’t let him say anything.

Sehun’s just afraid of the answer, that’s all.

Jongin stares at him, crestfallen. “Sehun...”

“You’ll catch a cold,” says Sehun. “You can dry yourself up, right? I’ll get your clothes and we can go a few blocks down for something to eat. Do you want to wear your scarf?”

“Wait, Sehun—”

“I’ll get your scarf and hat. We’ll match, okay?” Sehun says briskly, offering a weak and ill-fitting smile. “If we hurry, we’ll get back before noon so Minseok-hyung doesn’t scold us.” He’s quick to throw a jaunty wave before stumbling out of the bathroom.

 _I hurt his feelings_ , Jongin realizes mournfully. _Again._ When he stabilizes himself against the bathroom walls, he gets water everywhere. Biting back a cry—maybe out of frustration, maybe. He hears the furnace acting up, and through the thin wooden door he doesn’t miss a beat on Sehun muttering to someone.

_Luhan._

Jongin’s eyes widen, and he’s quick to twist the doorknob left and right, dismissing the rattling when he staggers out of the bathroom, clutching the old towel around his body as his teeth chatters. “Hyung!” he exclaims in a voice that is somewhere in between an attempted whisper and excitement. Sehun turns around with slits for eyes, lower lip shaking and bruised red from his teeth. “Hyung, hyung, hyung!”

Luhan takes his time to spin around on his heels, his shirt hanging loosely and barely tucked into faded jeans. There’s the sweet smile of his that Jongin loves, but he’s not sure if it’s really the right time to love such a soft smile with Sehun seething right next to Luhan.

“Jongin,” Luhan starts easily, and in two quick strides he’s in front of Jongin. He smells like smoke, Jongin realizes, and alcohol. It shouldn’t be a surprise, not anymore. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to it, like Sehun has. “Did you miss me all night?”

He nods vigorously, and that’s all Luhan needs.

“Did you eat dinner last night?” Jongin asks wistfully. “I set out a bowl for you but you never came and I had to eat alone with Sehunnie.” The rice had gone cold and sticky, and Jongin did his best to ignore Sehun’s spiteful muttering of how they’re just wasting food on a ‘nobody’.

“Is eating with me that bad?” Sehun asks with a slacken voice. He sounds tired, and Jongin wonders if he’s sad again.

“No!”

The corner of Luhan’s lips quirks up in an awful smile, but it still has Jongin looking away with a giddy feeling. Sehun mutters something about hurrying up and tosses his clothes to Jongin. And it’s not like he doesn’t see the heated glare Sehun shoots Luhan. He fumbles with them as Luhan chuckles in between lighting up another stick and crushing up an empty pack of Marlboro’s.

“That’s a fire hazard,” Sehun says in a dull tone. He’s fitting into his worn down sneakers, avoiding eye contact.

“I know, sweetheart,” Luhan’s voice drips with sarcasm. “We’re going to burn like it’s hell with one cigarette, my bad.” He stuffs his lighter in the back of his pocket, chuckling around the cancer stick. “And Jongin, my Jonginnie.”

 _My Jonginnie._ “Yeah, hyung?” Jongin asks, clutching a fistful of towel in his hand so it doesn’t fall.

“Go change, you’re dripping all over the floor,” Luhan says ruefully. Jongin yelps an apology, hurrying into the bathroom with Luhan’s smoky laughs following him.

His coughs do too, but they don’t say anything about that.

 

 

♕♕♕

Jongin, after eagerly wrestling himself into the sweater and jeans Sehun threw at him, barely wraps the scarf around his neck when he slips into their shared bedroom again. Luhan’s not there, and it’s just Sehun twiddling with one of Luhan’s Rubik's cubes. “Sehunnie, where’s hyung?” Jongin asks with a tiny voice, sitting himself in front of Sehun.

The other one eyes him intently. “Bathroom, the one in the hall.”

“Oh.” That bathroom is reserved for bad things. Like—

“Yeah. He needs to lose weight,” Sehun says, and there’s the lack of emotion in his voice. There’s the lack of everything. “Not _need_ to. But he wants to.”

_Oh._

If Sehun is the rosy prince of rib bones, then Luhan is king.

Jongin, uncomfortable with the topic, starts to squirm in his seat. Sehun too, whose clear intent of toying with the Rubik cube has gone astray and just sits in his palm. He wishes he can say they’re sitting in silence but they’re not. The atmosphere seems to stick to their skin like leeches, and it makes him itch. With some familiar piano notes being heard from Luhan’s music player. Sehun teases him for still owning a Walkman, and Luhan didn’t laugh.

It’s that music piece they’ve danced to in _La Bayadere,_ he thinks.

“Let’s go, Jongin.” Sehun tosses the cube somewhere behind him with a huff. Luhan won’t miss it anyways. “If we waste all our time here we’re not getting a break until tonight.” He grabs his bag and wallet, motioning Jongin with a quick gesture of his jaw.

“But shouldn’t we check up on hyung...” Jongin tumbles over his own words, catching the exasperated sigh that dares to escape Sehun's lips and the slump in his shoulders.

“Luhan can take care of himself,” says Sehun, zipping up his hoodie. “He always does.” His hand finds a way to hook his fingers through Jongin’s sleeve, the part where it buttons up. Sehun murmurs something that sounds like _it’s not important_ , pulling both of them out of their room.

When they’re passing the bathroom, Jongin sinks his front teeth into his bottom lip. _Please don’t yell at me Sehunnie._ He falters in his steps, arms falling out of Sehun’s grasp and limp by his side. Jongin turns towards the chipped wooden door hesitantly, and Sehun doesn’t protest. He doesn’t have that sort of right.

“Hyung?”

He hears the toilet flush. More coughing.

“Hyung, I’m...I’m going with Sehun. Will you be okay?” Jongin’s careful when it comes to talking to Luhan; a sense of formality and honorifics, dancing in between casual word choices and loosen strings. Sehun scoffs, but he understands, sort of.

Jongin waits for a few more seconds, and he’s ready to offer Sehun a smile and leave with him when the bathroom door swings open. Luhan’s face is pale, a sickly contrast of flushed beaten up lips to a skin covered in dew.

“Cute, you.” Luhan whispers, though it’s not meant to be one. “Always worrying about the wrong people.” His hands are shaky until he braces them against the wooden archway, and the dark circles under his eyes are like pouches of skin aged with wine.

“Let’s go, Jongin.” Sehun urges him. “Luhan- _hyung_ should rest. You want him to rest, right?” Luhan shoots him a sideways glare before dropping it so quickly, Jongin wonders if he had done it at all.

“Do you want rest, hyung?”

Luhan’s eyes flicker over to Sehun momentarily. “Yeah, rest. That’s what I need.” He turns back to Jongin with one of those smiles he’s told is reserved only for him. “Go play. You have until theatre time.” He shoulders pass Jongin, walking back to their room with hunched shoulders and long legs.

When Jongin turns to face Sehun, he offers a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I just wanted to make sure he’s okay...”

Sehun dismisses him by tugging on his scarf, the matching set they bought together last year as a gag for each other. “I know,” and it’s not Sehun’s usual plastic kind of voice. It’s a grudged understanding, or something along the lines of that. “You’ll always keep Luhan in your heart.”

“Yeah,” Jongin admits. _He doesn’t make fun of me. He loves me even when—_

“Even when he’s bad for you?”

“He’s not bad for me.”

 ♕♕♕

The air threatens to freeze over when they step outside; their visible breaths as witnesses to the stand. Sehun kicks some of the rocks at the bottom of the stairs, huffing out more puffs of air for the hell of it. “We should get coffee, huh? There’s the one in between the tailored suit shop.”

Jongin blanches. “You know coffee’s no good around here,” he says, hooking his arm with Sehun, mainly for support on the gelid sidewalks and because Sehun is well, warm. “We should ride our bikes to Hongdae.” He makes a show of pointing towards the other end of the street, past the STOP sign whose pole is peeling with advertisements and stickers from the clinic.

“The coffee is amazing here, you just don’t like dark roasts.” Sehun sneers, nudging Jongin slightly with his elbow. “No way am I riding my bike when it’s this icy out.”

“But it’s so close!”

“Let’s just get coffee here.” Sehun points towards the narrow alleyway in front of them, grinning and showing all teeth. “If you don’t like hot coffee, we’ll get some from Manufact.”

“Hot coffee burns my tongue,” Jongin whispers, like it’s a secret or a shame. But Sehun only laughs, and it sounds nice against the isolated air and lack of people in the streets. He strokes the side of Jongin’s face, immediately handling the cold skin quandary, and before Jongin knows it, his cheeks flare like cute Pink Lady apples that Joonmyun buys for the troupe.

“Okay, cold brew it is, then.”

Yeonhui is almost like a hideaway, and its residents speak in the longest silence. But the solitude is its charm, Jongin supposes, and it’s probably why Luhan had slapped his name on one of the smaller houses meant for one. Jongin doesn’t mind the tight living corridors so much, because it meant more Luhan and more Sehun. Even Sehun likes the small district, and Jongin has no trouble getting around.

Shouldering past each other in the cramp alley way, Sehun knows the district like it’s a given. The Manufact has no advertisements, no flashy signs. It’s like an uncut gem nestled in between cramped walls of a residential building, with only the words _Manufact Coffee Roasters_ etched onto a faded sign in English. It’s not drawing attention at all. In fact, they have to turn the door handle a few times until it pops open, letting the pair in for two flights of stairs accompanied by fliers and ads inked in Hangul, Chinese, and English. Sehun’s hold on Jongin is rather tight, but they both know why.

_If I fall—if it happens, Sehun will be sad._

Jongin has the chance to look over at all the advertisements as he brushes against the walls, some like _Cafe 129-11_ or _Nemo e Ggoom_ , with the slap of a sticky note with directions how to get there, by foot or something else. “Watch your step,” Sehun mutters. “There’s a few fly-away fliers on the stairs.” Jongin makes a sound that falls in between a giggle or a squeak, and Sehun turns around. “What?”

“Fly-away fliers,” says Jongin. “It...it just sounds funny.” He tugs on Sehun’s sleeves, because he likes the scratchy material. A smile splits across Sehun’s face, and he lets Jongin hold onto him. Reaching the coffee shop itself leads them to another world, almost. Unlike its entrance way of dirty steps dusted with coal and fliers, the shop itself is bright in lighting and cozy environment.

Sehun slips past the man who’s sprawled across the couch and he keeps Jongin close behind him as they move to a set of worn down vintage chairs. There’s scattered magazines and coffee table books; the kinds loaded with satire and biased paragraphs. Jongin tightens the scarf around his neck with a hum. “I’ll treat you Jongin,” Sehun says.

Jongin smiles, sinking down into the seat with sticky leather. “Okay,” he replies, grazing his fingers across the laminated menu with both Korean and English words. “Should we get something for Luhan to eat? Or drink, maybe. He likes...he likes Americano.”

Sehun only makes eye contact for a second before glancing back down at his menu. “He doesn’t eat.”

Jongin squirms, biting down on his lips. “But shouldn’t we...”

“He’s older, he’s an adult. He is twenty-nine, Jongin. He’s already nine years ahead of us so he can take care of himself.” Sehun sounds bitter almost, but they’ll blame it on the early morning head. Sehun’s eyes soften, and the wrinkle in his skin flattens out in between his brows. “I don’t think it’s fitting for you to worry about him. Especially with...”

“But he worries about me,” Jongin says, his voice low and a few pitches too sad. “He worries about me and you.” But he knows what Sehun means. Jongin...Jongin can’t afford to worry about anyone else; it isn’t as if it’s a choice. It’s just...him. Yeah, just him.

“Iced-brew?” Sehun asks quickly, trying to change topics. “I’ll go order, just wait here.”

“I will. I am.”

Sehun, despite sunken eyes and too many bones to count on pasty pale arms, he manages to smile at Jongin the same way his fifteen-year-old self did. Jongin sighs, his eyes slightly stinging from the lack of sleep and just waking up too early. The _Manufact_ isn’t a coffee shop they normally frequent, mostly because Sehun established the place as a summertime visit. But every once in awhile they make an exception.

Jongin lets his eyes drift shut and relaxes back into the old armchair. It’s relatively quiet in the shop save for the soft acoustic soundtrack playing from overhead speakers. When Jongin feels himself succumbing to sleep he pries his eyes open in an effort to stay awake. He glances around to look for Sehun, but everything looks far away.

His heart soars and gets lodged in his throat, as if it's tearing the muscular walls and threatening to snap his neck. His eyes lock on a painting of two women on the other side of the room, but he can barely make out the colors with it being miles and miles away. But he know it’s not. He knows it’s only a few feet, a few steps away.

 _No, no, no,_ Jongin thinks weakly, his hands finding comfort in digging into his own flesh. The chair with an indent in the cushion from Sehun isn’t up close anymore, just as far if not farther away than the painting. Breathing hitched and lips quivering, he pushes himself further back into his chair, trying to get away.

But you can’t get away from what’s in your head.

Jongin squeezes his eyes shut, sinking his front teeth into a damaged bottom lip with a squeak. _Don’t let Sehun know, don’t let Sehun know_ — his back arches into the sticky leather, his mind throbbing. _Don’t open your eyes, don’t..._

He doesn’t open his eyes. Instead, he tries to relax his grip on his knees, and reset his breathing. _There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just Alice, there’s nothing wrong with me._

(There’s something wrong with me.)

“Jongin?”

He’s afraid to open his eyes, but he tries a smile. Jongin doesn’t have to see himself to know it looks awful. Like that clown with his lips snitched to its cupid’s bow—courtesy of a certain someone and his circus horror phase, he hasn’t really grown out of it, he just kept it under the sheets with all his ecstasy—and just plain bad. Jongin internally slumps, and maybe physically, too.

“Sehunnie,” he croaks, opening one eye slowly with his lashes stuck together. “Sorry.”

Sehun looks tired. They both are. “It usually doesn’t happen in the mornings,” he mutters, and the two Dutch brewed coffees shake in his hands. It’s not on purpose. “And twice in row, at that. Are you...you’re not...”

“Huh?” Jongin blinks blearily. It’s normal again, his vision. But for how long? “What do you mean?” He sits up straighter, like Joonmyun tells them to. _Break a skull before you break a spine_ , he said. Sehun looks around anxiously, but it’s just the two brothers-slash-owners idling around and shaking up their coffee bean jars; Jong-pil and Jong-jin.

Sehun leans in close enough that even the slightest breath stirs Jongin’s hair. “Are you using stimulants again?” he asks, voice shaky and anxious. Jongin jerks up, his face ashen. “I thought you were over those, Jongin!” It’s a whisper-yell, afraid of being heard but yet not afraid at all.

“No,” he shakes his head quickly. “No, no, no! I’m not doing drugs! I’m just...I don’t know, Sehun. I don’t know.” Sehun visibly relaxes, his shoulders drooping in a good way when he collapses onto the seat across from him, eyes lidded and lips parted.

“You don’t know.”

Jongin looks away, the coffee cold in his hands and leaving them damp. They don’t say anything for a while. Sehun has his phone out but it's not on, and Jongin’s fingers go numb from rubbing circles on his jeans. They’re listening to the same things, Jong-phil with his apron stained with coffee and cream, pointing animatedly with a jar labeled ‘ETHIOPIAN BEANS’. They keep their ears open for the drowsy buzz of the heater.

They don’t say anything, but Jongin can read the faint veins on Sehun’s wrists, and he can trace the worn down skin on the boy’s cheeks, even if deprived of color.

The silence is uncomfortable.

Clearing his throat, Jongin shifts around until he’s completely facing Sehun, with his neck angled for show. The blinds are up, and they have a minimalist’s view of the few shops and restaurants cramped together on Yeonhui-dong’s cafe street. “Hey,” Jongin starts off quietly, and they ignore the crack in his voice. “It’s pretty up here, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you mad at me?” Jongin tries again, undeterred by Sehun’s monosyllabic answer. “I’m sorry Sehun...I’m sorry.”

Sehun turns his head, and his eyes are dim. They always are, actually. “Don’t be sorry.” He looks almost incredulous. “Why are you even apologizing? It’s not like you chose to have Todd. It’s unfair to you...you of all people—don’t deserve it.”

Jongin feels a smile, a real smile. He looks over at the windows, particularly at the supposedly run-down clinic that Luhan always scoffed at and avoided, opting to go for one in Hongdae instead. Except it’s not anymore. “Hey,” Jongin starts, pointing at the building cramped between _Qwymin’s Table_ and an Italian bakery. “That’s Yoora-ssi’s place right?”

Sehun’s eyes flicker in amusement. “The clinic, uh huh. Fixed up nicely, right?”

Jongin nods. “It looks really pretty. Like the ones you find in Seoul’s metro-core. But how did she...” he trails off, but he knows Sehun knows what he means. Park Yoora, the neighborhood’s sweetheart with her hand outreached to help the needy and smiling. Park Yoora, the graduate with a few check bills, some sort of medical diploma—Jongin doesn’t know—and twinkling eyes. Park Yoora, the pretty bachelorette who makes just enough to get by.

Sehun reads his mind. “Yoora-ssi has a younger brother, did you know?” Jongin didn’t know. “He’s going to be her partner at the clinic, well-endowed in the money gray area.” Jongin nods, turning his eyes back to the clinic. It’s obvious that it had been patched up, the faded 로즈 머리 sign with its paint once an ugly red now repainted in letters that speaks of a more eye-pleasing hue. It’s fixed up nicely, he thinks, with potted roses of several colors in the window to go with the clinic name; the walls repainted to a clean slate of white.

“I’ve never met her brother,” says Jongin, though it’s more of a murmur. And it’s true, he hasn’t. Luhan knows everyone and their whore, which means Jongin knows, too. The two of them slumped under a dirty soju tent listening to banters and Yeonhui gossip, occasionally the Hongdae talk comes, too.

Sehun shrugs, teething his straw. “He doesn’t live in Seoul. It's Busan or Daejeon, I don’t know.” He’s almost done with his coffee, and Jongin barely made a dent. “I heard he’s crazy.”

Jongin freezes, and the hair pricks at his neck. “Crazy...”

“Not,” Sehun’s quick to catch the change in Jongin. “Not...not medically, Jongin, no. I don’t know. Kind of eccentric, if you want?”

“How do you know these things?”

Sehun shrugs, and his scarf slips off his shoulder in a drag. “I went for a smoke with Joohyun, she’s a friend of Yoora.” Jongin has seen Joohyun on the steps of their house often, usually at night with only their flickering porch light in company with Sehun or Luhan. She’s pretty, he guess, with her fingers too small to really curl around the lip of an empty Budweiser from the States. She’s pretty, but Jongin doesn’t like how she always touches Luhan.

By the time Jongin reaches the middle of his drink, Sehun already tossed his drink out. Instead of settling back in the seat in front of him, Sehun nudged Jongin over so that they can squeeze into the seat meant for two. “Sehunnie?” Jongin asks quietly, though there won’t be much of an answer. Sehun hums, getting Jongin a squeeze on his shoulder with cold hands.

“I’m sorry,” he always does this, saying sorry. “My attitude is poor, isn’t it?” Jongin doesn’t blame him. He’d be tired, too, having someone trail him while screaming out that his legs are getting long or the room is so far away.

“It’s not your fault I have Todd Syndrome,” Jongin assures him with the voice that both Luhan and Sehun likes—quiet, calm, honey-filled. “You’re sorry even when you don’t have to, Sehunnie.”

_It’s not your fault I’m Alice._

Before they leave the Manufact, Jongin lingers around a little bit longer before ordering an Americano to go.

 

 

♕♕♕

“You know he’s not going to drink it.” Sehun eyes the iced coffee warily, watching the boy race ahead of him by a few steps. “I said he’s in the phase again, he’s not going to.”

Jongin frowns, and his chest constricts for Luhan. “He doesn’t have to,” he says meekly, “dieting, I mean.” They call it dieting, even when it’s not. They call it his  _happy trigger,_ even though it’s not. “Maybe we can convince him, huh? No one has to diet, Joonmyun loves us all and—,” Jongin’s words fall short when Sehun’s face loses color and muscle.

“He’s not the only one dieting,” Sehun snaps, and Jongin flinches. “Look at you, look at me. Look at our entire troupe.” Jongin averts his gaze. Sehun never means the things he says, but Jongin says nothing anyways, only fumbling with his keys and jamming it into their front door.

“It doesn’t mean that we can’t change,” Jongin says, and he wonders if they’re talking about the same things.

Their front door is crammed with shoes: rain boots, sneakers, and worn down ballet slippers. The same can be said for their drawer, cluttered with almost emptied packs of cigarettes and receipts. Sehun murmurs something about the mess, but it never changes. Instead, they both kick off their shoes, not bothering with slippers.

“Hyung,” Jongin calls out, shuffling into the living space. Sehun walks the other way, probably to their room to be alone. “Lu-hyung, hyung?”

“I’m here, I’m here. Stop calling my name.” Jongin startles by the voice under the covers. Luhan, sprawled across the sofa, throws the covers off his body. His shirt had risen, exposing near-perfect skin had it not been for the freckles and bruises. Almost perfect, Jongin thinks _._ Luhan opens his eyes with much effort, his hair ruffled by the couch and he grins.

Jongin takes the half-offered smile as a pass to sit next to Luhan, who makes a bit of room by kicking his foot off the couch and curling it under him. His skin, though still transparent and lacking iron, looks better than it did an hour ago. “Hyung,” Jongin thrusts the coffee into Luhan’s hands, careful not to spill. “I just thought that—you look tired, and I don’t know where you slept last night but you shouldn’t fall asleep during rehearsals today or they’ll...”

“They’ll what?” Luhan asks, voice edged with flowers; the droopy kind.

“Call you _weird_ ,” Jongin settles for weird. They say other bad things about Luhan, things Jongin doesn’t like referring to. The bad words, Joonmyun calls them, are bad words for bad people.

Luhan eyes the coffee in his hands. “What about you? What about when they call you weird?” he asks. Jongin stiffens, his lips parted with no words. Luhan takes this as an answer, and wraps a skinny arm around Jongin’s waist, a gesture so common. Luhan breathes against Jongin’s neck, and he smells of cheap smoke again, blurred across the edges with toothpaste. “My little Alice. My Jongin—thanks for the coffee.”

Jongin finds himself admiring Luhan again, with his half-lidded eyes and lip scar that seems traceable. So he does, though hesitant. He brings up a thumb etched with paper cuts to graze across Luhan’s scar. He just stares at him. Jongin smiles weakly, his hands trembling.

Luhan notices. “Are your hallucinations still bothering you?” he asks in a low voice, shifting his leg around so it’s not being crushed by the weight of Jongin. After much thought, or maybe none at all, Jongin gives a slow nod. The two of them can hear Sehun rustling upstairs, moving furniture again so there’s room for practice. “Aren’t you sick of it?”

“Sick of what?” Jongin asks numbly, pulling his hands away so he’s hugging himself.

“Your medicines,” Luhan starts, and his voice is rough, a poor contrast to his delicate face. “Our fuckers—fellow, lovely, down-to-earth ballerinas and ballerinos.” Jongin cracks a smile, and it’s just what Luhan intended on. “It must feel like shit, huh?” It’s not a question, no matter how he phrases it.

Jongin doesn’t know. Sehun just makes him swallow the little happy pill every morning with a burning glass of water—it never really is burning, it just hurts—and Luhan throws down the paper bag with his prescribed medication reserved for fucked ups. “I don’t know,” Jongin voices the tiny voice in his head. “It’s okay though, because...you and Sehun understand. You don’t make fun of me...you two don’t.”

For a while, Luhan doesn’t say anything, just stares at the back of the coffee and its calorie count.

“Jongin?” Luhan calls out to him, his voice low and almost considerate.

“Yeah?” he turns towards his hyung with sleepy eyes and a fistful of Luhan’s sweater. “Yeah, hyung?”

Luhan bites the straw first, hesitant and slow. It’s a habit that Jongin has taken notice of, the way he chews on his straws before sipping on anything. He takes a drink, a little bit of it. “Thanks,” Luhan croaks, and Jongin almost misses the way Luhan eyes the bathroom door warily.

Jongin wraps an arm around Luhan and pulls him in closely, wanting to conserve the warmth of his too-small elder that reeked of cheap booze and car freshener. His fingertips graze along Luhan’s ribs and he squirms.

Luhan is— _Luhan_ is king. Sehun is prince.

Jongin is in a rabbit hole.

“You’re welcome, hyung.” Jongin’s voice is muffled in Luhan’s arm. “Keep me close to you.” He smells of coffee beans, and Luhan can’t help but snuggle him closer, despite his breathing a bit too shaky.

“I am.”

 

 

♕♕♕

“Hurry up, you ass.” Luhan grunts and kicks the bathroom door with the back of his foot. Jongin smiles wanly, listening to Sehun’s retorts stringed with his own curse words. Luhan narrows his eyes into slits, huffing as he stuffs his balled up hands into his pocket, giving the bathroom door another kick. “You’re the fucking reason why Joonmyun is always bitching at us for being late!”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Sehun snaps from the bathroom, and they both hear the water running and some splashing. “I’m done, I’m done.” Luhan shoots a smile to Jongin.

“It’s cold, isn’t it?” he asks, jerking a thumb towards one of the windows coated in frost. “Must be.”

Jongin nods, and his clutch on his scarf tightens. Getting sick is not an option that can be factored in—especially with the new production. He can’t, he can’t. Turning his attention elsewhere as Luhan continues to bicker at the wooden door, he keeps his eyes on the ground littered with magazines and crumpled up paper. There’s the cut out page from a magazine with Sehun’s subscriptions, among others like _Men’s Health, Clavier Companion_ , and _Bazaar._ Sometimes on the weekend nights when Luhan’s off laughing in another district and Sehun’s out for a smoke or two with Yixing, Jongin finds himself curled on Luhan’s bed with the pile of magazines; the yellowish lamp light as his only friend on a Saturday night.

He’d flip past the pages with torn out edges, of healthy recipes and weight loss regimes, and head straight to the models and celebrities, staring at them in awe. _So beautiful, I want to be beautiful._

Sehun slips out of the bathroom with an eye twitch, flickering his gaze towards Luhan with an annoyed stance. Luhan does the same, too, except not so subtly. Sehun makes a show of pulling down his sleeves with jerky motions, ushering Jongin to hurry down the stairs with him. “The subway isn’t going anywhere, hyung.” Sehun rolls his eyes, grabbing his coat off one of the hooks as he hurries down the stairs. “We got ten minutes, Lu. Ten minutes.”

“It takes ten minutes to get to the subway station,” Luhan reminds him dryly, zipping up his jacket hastily. “Get your asses moving, let’s go.”

“Wait,” Jongin fumbles with pulling the scarf away from his mouth so he can talk. “Hyung don’t leave yet you...” Jongin spins around on his heel, waddling into their tiny living room where Luhan always tosses his scarves and hats in after a late night. “You don’t have your hat.” Jongin points out quietly, gripping onto the woolly material that Luhan bought a few years back. Sehun looks away, and Luhan just takes a quick step in front of Jongin.

“Put it on me,” Luhan commands gently. “Tug it over my ears, put it on me.”

Jongin does, and he finds that he likes grazing his fingers against the shell of Luhan’s ear. “Let’s go,” Sehun says gruffly, snatching his duffel bag off the floor and swings it over his shoulder, bumping a little bit into the door. “You don’t want to be late, right, _hyung_?” It comes off like dripping venom, and Luhan doesn’t miss the little grunt before he jiggles the door open, hurrying off into the cold.

Luhan turns around lazily, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his string bag hanging off his arm. “Let’s go, Jongin,” he says, offering the younger boy his arm, which Jongin gladly leeches onto.or Luhan smells like the dance room; the foreign fragrance that Joonmyun sprays every morning, almost herbal, hippie. Luhan is of cold comfort, and Jongin finds that wrapping an arm around the elder sets his heart at ease.

“You took your meds?”

“Yes hyung, I took my meds.”

Sehun is ahead of them by a few steps, but he slows down considerably to walk beside Jongin. He offers him soft eyes and a young face, before it turns to plastic against the cold. “My shoulder is still a bit of a loose screw from yesterday,” says Sehun, in the light of things, trying to make small talk. At this point, Sehun doesn’t care if Luhan answers or not—because none of them likes the silence, none of them like it at all. “You got any muscle ointment in that bag, Lu?”

Luhan ignores him, his footstep a bit of a stumble as Jongin is pressed against him protectively. Luhan doesn’t seem to mind, he never does, anyways.

The Seoul Theatre of Ballet is a car ride of fifteen minutes away from Yeonhui-dong. Except, neither of the two can drive, and God can rain fire before they get into a vehicle controlled by Luhan. That leaves only the train as their option, and it’s not so bad. The train ends up becoming their go-to because they just happen to live in the God damn middle of nowhere.

Not really nowhere, actually. Jongin quite likes the place.

It's home.

The subway is a few blocks ahead, its walkway of hurried neighbors they barely talk to, rushing around with overstuffed trash cans and emptying mail boxes. It’s a neighborhood that’s a short walking distance away from the cafe street, Jongin’s favorite, in fact. Sehun’s favorite is around the whiskey bars, even if he’s a lightweight when it comes to hard liquor. And Luhan, his favorite place is in the rooms, because it’s a trustworthy place to spill secrets to people who aren’t listening; people who aren’t there.

“I’m so tired,” Jongin murmurs, leaning in closer to Luhan with his other side brushing against Sehun too often to be an accident. “I’m sleepy.” The coffee didn’t help, and Jongin’s just left droopy again.

Luhan keeps walking, but that isn’t to say that he doesn’t falter. “Did you pull a late-night practice again?” he asks, his voice blunt around the edges and there’s nothing to depict of it. “Why didn’t Sehun wait for you?” Luhan shoots Sehun a look.

“He said he’d call you,” Sehun retorts, fixing his duffel bag strap. “That you’d pick him up. How did that go, hyung?” Jongin reddens. He doesn’t like it when Sehun and Luhan argue; especially when he feels like he’s the cause of it. He buries his lower face deeper into his scarf, as if it could drown it out.

“Jongin didn’t call me,” Luhan says, deliberately slow. When he walks besides Sehun and Jongin, he’s relatively shorter; but his paper frown and glassy eyes make up for it, exceeds it, even. “You should have stayed there with him. You should have.”

“He said that you would—”

Luhan pulls away from Jongin, and he can’t help but whimper. “Shut up, Sehun.” Jongin is the one who flinches. “You know how bad it is at night with his illness.” Luhan’s not yelling, but the streets are so quiet he might as well be. Sehun’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything. Jongin’s palms starts to twitch, and he smooths them out on his jacket as his eyes look anywhere except at them.

“Sorry,” Jongin croaks, and his voice sounds much louder when it’s only footsteps as competition. “I’m sorry.” They walk past the clinic, a sign with ink embedded as ‘CLOSED’. He trails a little bit behind his two companions, their shoulders instinctively straightened and their footsteps light even if their voices weren’t. “My phone had died...I’m sorry.”

Sehun looks back and suggests a wry smile. “Don’t be sorry, we’re not arguing. Here,” Sehun slows down so his steps are in match with his. He throws an arm around Jongin, offering a few chuckles and cold breaths. Jongin relaxes, but he’s still staring at the small back of their elder, who still isn’t saying anything. “We’re almost near the subway stairs. Out of the cold, right Jonginnie?” They’re never out of the cold, but Jongin beams anyways.

Maybe the reason Yeonhui is in the middle of nowhere is because its lack of transportation, but there's always Hongdae’s.

Luhan looks back momentarily, before hurrying down the steps. “Careful,” he mutters, and had Sehun and Jongin not stretched their ears, they would’ve only heard a whisper. “The steps are littered.” Don’t trip and die, he means. Sehun makes Jongin go first, eyeing his steps like a weary mother while pointing out the graffiti on the cemented walls. Scrawled love confessions and declarations of murders alike with a spray paint can.

Jongin stares in the awe at the early street performers, whose favorite location is Hongdae station. At first, Jongin thought they came to the district because the neighborhood was pretty. Luhan told him that the street performers are greedy, and businessmen in the like, mumbling about how Hongdae’s station is crowded enough for a few thrown wons.

Jongin still thinks it’s for the beauty, though.

After pressing a few things on a touch screen and palm-size ticket in hand, they push through the silver bars and hurry to a bench, throwing their duffel bags on the floor. Jongin sits down sheepishly, mindful of the space his bag takes up. “I have to wash my slippers again,” he says, pointing at his bag. “I’m going to get them all dirty today during practice.”

“Leather?” Sehun asks mindlessly, tapping away on his phone.

“Canvas,” says Jongin. He swings his legs as much as he can, with his height and all. He never was a big fan of sneakers, especially being used to the way the slippers molded his feet. Sneakers just feel heavy on his feet now, and they all understand. He points his toes with a small smile, and no one notices, _good_.

Luhan slumps against one of the pillars with his hair pulled off and hanging off two fingers, his hair all frazzled and messy. “Why are you two always arguing?” asks Jongin, because Luhan is far enough that a whisper won’t reach him. It’s a question that thirteen-year-old Jongin asked; it’s the question that seventeen-year-old Jongin asked. It’s  _the same_ question that twenty-year-old Jongin still asks, but he hasn’t reached an answer or even the slightest of one.

Sehun’s tapping away on his phone, but it’s a black screen. “You wouldn’t understand. So, let’s not try, okay?” He keeps his voice light—like a dove whose feathers are gone. Light but ugly. Jongin nods again, like all his younger-versions did to the same answer. He keeps at pointing his toes and bending his knees until Luhan comes over.

“It’s coming, don’t idle.” Sehun is quick to stand and throw his bag over his shoulder and chest again, and Jongin stands by Luhan with bright eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Luhan mutters, but he doesn’t look away from Jongin.

“Is it okay if I...” Jongin looks down at his hands with a flare. “Stay for an extra hour or two tonight? I’ve charged my phone! I can call...and I can take the subway back home like yesterday,” he says quickly, not wanting to have that look on Luhan’s face again.

“No need,” Luhan says dismissively, tugging on his arm to stand in front of the soon-to-be subway. “I’ll stay with you.”

“I don’t want to waste your time—,”

“You’re not going to,” Luhan says and his voice nearly cuts off as the subway doors open. He starts to go in, following Sehun. “I’m doing my own thing, hell if you think I’m just going to sit there.” _Right,_ Jongin thinks meekly, but he’s a bit relieved.

The subway has its own share of people going in for work or whatever. Sehun points out a girl with poorly damaged hair; dyed in coral. “Looked like 2008 Soojung,” he whispers, amused.

“Don’t be mean Sehunnie,” Jongin says, just as quiet. “It’s not good to be mean.” But he can’t help to agree, because Soojung eight years ago had dyed crazy hair in poor contrast with bubblegum lipstick. Not so attractive—but she’s pretty, they can all agree.

The subway ride is always the same, Luhan standing instead of sitting, and they’re the only ones who can see what he’s doing. Unconsciously doing a _rond de jambe_ , once or four times. And the other two won’t say anything, until they get off to point out a mistake like a bent knee or a wobbly footwork. Except, that’s not usually the case for Luhan—Luhan is perfect; Luhan is the only male in the company to be en pointe, though Yixing might challenge that. Luhan is a soloist, one of the only eighteen at the Seoul Theatre. Luhan is beautiful. Luhan is loved.

By few.

Jongin is always entranced by Luhan’s footwork, the way he rotates only the area under his knee without a wobble or a shift in expression, not showing any sign of a tired leg. Jongin finds similar actions in that Liu girl they got last season—an American-Taiwanese ballerina whose best known for her balancé, but she rarely gets the choreography to do it in her parts, so she’s basically a nobody.

  
Nobodies are common in the company, Jongin thinks, and he tries to shoo away the thought by focusing on Luhan. Sehun focuses too, being a _coryphée_ meant they should eye every soloist and principal; be it the way they breathe, wobble, lie— _mimic_ them.

They’re used to the quick glances and stares that drag on for too long, dubbed as the eccentric ballerinos of the red line. Attention is good, Joonmyun told them, this is good. Sehun stares at Luhan’s rotation intently, nodding to nothing, or maybe he’s nodding to a piano piece that’s only in his head.

When it comes to their stop to get off, Jongin curls himself against the two of them, because it’s cold. “Your endurance is great, hyung,” he says to Luhan, who looks smug and nearly content, but it’s not nearly enough. Sehun agrees, even if he doesn’t show it. The Seoul Theatre is only a few blocks ahead, and they start to see familiar faces, like the owner of the indie bakery that specializes in Russian custards, and the woman of the dress shop who Minseok has been fooling around with since the production of the _Nutcracker_ last year.

“I fucking hate January,” Sehun says with a low whine. “I can feel my muscles freezing up already.”

“You have your leg warmers,” Luhan points out unhelpfully. His voice is brisk as he makes an effort to talk through the beating icy wind. Seoul favors no person, no weather. In front of the building, he scans his card and holds the door for the rest of them, heat welcoming them kindly. It’s just barely ten in the damn hours of the morning, and Sehun is right, their muscles do feel all numb.

Back then, when Jongin was maybe the tender age of fifteen, he’d go greet their director or the prima ballet dancers; a shy boy trying his best to utter a few words in his own language. But Luhan tells him it’s not needed, because none of them gives a fuck if you’re not a choreographer or a manager. Jongin has since stopped.

The Seoul Theatre of Ballet presents itself in beautiful arcs that could mimic the Renaissance with a modern twist, with its carved ceilings that screams fake Michelangelo. The angels and gorgeous courtiers in the nude used to be printed in Jongin’s mind as beautiful, a saving grace to art and ballet. Now it’s just plain, with the tenth or hundredth thousandth time he has craned his neck to have a quick glimpse of an artwork that could never pass for a Michelangelo or Da Vinci.

There’s a statue in the middle, a replica of _The David,_ except it’s in fiberglass. Hansol says it’s there for the whole reenact-the-renaissance thing, but Jongin thinks it’s a motivation, _be the most perfect._ He’s trying. He’s failing.

They take quick and careless strides past the statue and artwork that suffocates the main entrance, and take quick turns to the back of it all. It’s almost a comical juxtaposition to the main room, whose singing angels are carved in oil paint or marble. The singing angels are basically coughing on cigarette-filled air in the practice corridors, and the closest thing they’ve got to the fake David are the ballerinas crushing their new pointe shoes between the doors to break it in. Perfect. Almost suggestive, some—actually, _most_ —are half-dressed and making no point to slip on a tutu or tights.

The male corridor is just to the right of the females’, where all their dressing rooms are. Sehun pushes the door open, whistling and greeting Yixing. “Morning,” he says. He doesn’t say _good morning,_ because he’s anything but a liar.

Yixing is half naked, his upper body swarmed in bandages and a stitching he got two weeks ago from an accident at home. He offers up one of the sweetest smiles. It challenges even the Archangel Gabriel, except for those dark circles under his eyes that chime a different tune. Sehun gives him a high-five, a weak attempt of one before throwing his duffel bag down and stripping.

“What do you two have first?” Yixing asks, the question directed to the two coryphées.

“Warm ups.”

“That’s a given.”

Jongin offers an apologetic look for Sehun. “Scene VI,” he says softly. Jongin is quiet; he’s the sounds of feathers around the other dancers. “With the rest of the corps.” _Corps_ sounds filthy in his mouth, like a shame. He can tell himself it’s not so bad, that being a coryphée is better than just some pretty corps member alone. He tells himself that—he tells himself that a lot. It just never works.

“Keep talking Xing,” Luhan interrupts while unzipping his duffel. “And Siwon will snap both of your twiggy legs when you’re late.” Yixing’s cheeks flush like cherries, and he gives Jongin and Sehun a squeeze on the shoulder warmly, hurrying off with only one leg warmer on. The other is in his hand. Luhan snorts, tugging the sweater off his head.

King Luhan revels in his ribs that stretch over his sides and kisses his collar bones when he does so, and even Sehun looks wary. It’s not like things change, anyways. Sehun made a habit of throwing his dance belt and tights on before leaving, so he’s out and about after tossing on a shirt and legwarmers.

“Jonginnie,” he calls out, fitting the ribbon over the foot of his shoe. “Meet me by the 9th?” Jongin nods eagerly. The _9th_ is a joke among the company; it’s cold only in the mornings, and some silver tongue dancer make a joke about it being like Dante’s 9th circle of Hell a few decades ago. It’s not so frozen over anymore, the heated floors actually extending that far. But the name sticks.

Jongin fumbles with all his layers, bunching his scarf and hat up in a makeshift ball and stuffing it in the back of his bag, behind a few bottles of Advil and a half-emptied water bottle. He keeps his back turned to Luhan, his face red but he blames the cold. Despite knowing Lu for eight years and living with the hyung for six, seeing him naked makes Jongin feel guilty.

Jongin slips out of his pants and is quick to wiggle out of boxers, replacing them with a dance belt, the string digging into his hip but he’s used to it. He pulls the skin-bound tights over his thighs, happy to cover the unsightly bruises that beckons for all eyes to see. He hopes they don’t. The tights cling onto his legs like a parasite; it feels like home. He barely manages to pull his head out of his sweatshirt when a bony, small hand grasps the back of his tights, hooking fingers and pulling a stumbling Jongin.

“Hyung...”

“I saw the bruises when you were stripping,” Luhan says bluntly, his voice airy like he doesn’t care. “It was running right to the back of your calves. Granted they’re just bruises, but do you have anything to tell me?” Luhan, with his fingers still hooked in Jongin’s tights and grazing his fingertips along his skin, he wraps the other arm around the taller one’s waist, a gesture they’re both so used to. But it’s not for them.

“My Todd syndrome was acting up when I was in a middle of a jump,” Jongin admits sheepishly, melting his aching back into Luhan’s chest, who hums close to his ear. “And then I got...I got bruises. That’s good, right? You said pain is good.” _This is painful._

“No,” Luhan’s voice is pointed, and trickling near the redness of the shell of his ear. “Yours don’t count. Bruises from fights, abuse, or _neurological disorders_ don’t count. They’re just shameful.”

Jongin winces.

“I’ll kiss it better when it’s a bruise from ballet.” Luhan unhooks his fingers and lets his arm go limp from Jongin’s side, but he stands in front of him with raised brows. He reaches up to push away Jongin’s bangs and _en pointe,_ he presses a kiss to his forehead almost teasingly—chapped lips that violently sneers at soft skin. “You are _my_ Jongin, don’t get hurt unless it’s for ballet.”

“For ballet?”

“Break a leg for ballet,” Luhan pulls away, and bends down to pull his legwarmer up to his knee. “Do anything for ballet.”

Okay.

When Luhan leaves with a careless wave, Jongin is alone.

 

 

♕♕♕

The corps de ballet, soloists, and principals are all equal in the warm up room. There’s no looking up and down and pointing out if a prima ballerina has gotten too old or tossed on an extra kilo; whether or not she should toss it all out in the toilet. There’s smiles exchanged, greetings and human contact. They’re equal, until the stage involved and the corps are all imps to the Devil. The principal dancers look best in red.

Luhan notices Jongin first when he slips into the 9th, quick to join Sehun on the barres. “Hey,” he greets him, making a bit of room on the barre by sliding over a few steps. “Got your warmers for those clenched muscles?” Sehun asks, though he can see the warmers on Jongin arms and legs. He nods anyways, a curl of lips.

The 9th is a decor of stick-thinned ballerinas and ballerinos, even if none of them prefer that terminology. The set of bars aligned parallel to each other, and that’s the closest thing to perfection in this room. Even if they’re all equal, the corps are on a set of barres with the coryphées, the primas with the soloists. They’re equal—but not equal enough.

Soojung spots Sehun and Jongin first, and does a chassé across the room, plopping down next to the two. “Hey, you two.” She stretches out her legs and pulls her leg warmer up to her thigh. There’s ribbons sewn onto it, as Soojung never misses a chance to make a fashion statement, even if it’s a boring one. “A beautiful morning paired with gorgeous plies and frappes.” She makes a plastic glee gesture, and Sehun throws a disdained face. No matter how easy plies and the likes are, it’s excruciating. Especially with a sadist like Siwon for a warm up supervisor.

“You broke your shoes in,” Sehun points at the obviously smashed pointe shoes. “Got all that rage out?”

“Uh huh, it’s my favorite thing to do.” Soojung grins, the bun on her head wobbly when she laughs. “I got a lot of it pent up in here.” She makes gestures to her chest with a mocking face.

“Why?”

“Sooyeon,” Soojung mutters the name like it's the antichrist. “The prick locked me out of the practice room at home and spent a goddamn three hours in there doing developpes.” Jongin looks at her sympathetically. Sooyeon is a principal dancer with her grace and cat-like smile that wilts whenever she doesn’t get the spotlight. “I don’t know how you all manage with Luhan, living with a _soloist_.”

“It’s not so bad,” Jongin says, smiling fondly up at Luhan, who’s too busy stretching his legs and ankles. “Lu-hyung doesn’t treat us poorly.” Sehun doesn’t argue with that, but he doesn’t add anything to it, either.

“Let me move in with you,” she groans, stretching out her arms while glaring at her sister in the far corner. “I’d do anything to get away from Sooyeon’s constant, ‘ _oh, you poor little corps girl. You poor thing’_ talk. It’s not my fault she fucked her way to—,”

“Shush!” Jongin is quick to clasp a hand over her mouth. “They’ll hear you!”

“They all know anyways,” says Sehun. “It’s not like a company secret.” It sort of is. It should be Sooyeon the great, Sooyeon the prima who danced as the sugarplum princess last season. Not, Sooyeon, the ballerina who left a trail of lipstick on some higher-up’s neck. “Besides, I don’t think you’d like living there with us. We got a quiet neighborhood, and Luhan is crazy.”

Jongin looks almost offended. “He’s not crazy.” Sehun doesn’t get another word in before there’s a loud thump of a bag and a water bottle near the door.

“Legs, legs, all of you!” Siwon clasps his two hands together, a grim smile follows suit. It’s not like he’s actually sad or anything, he just smiles like he is. “Let’s not be like students—you’re all _professionals._ ” Jongin scrambles off the floor, and there’s an eery harmonization of squeaky floors and ballet shoes. Jongin on Sehun’s right, and Soojung a few persons ahead. All three of them smile widely, even if they’re not feeling up to it. Stretches aren’t so bad, they’re almost lazy work.

They all have favorites, but it doesn’t matter. Soojung is especially fond of the straddles, whereas Jongin and Luhan will take the barres over that any day. Sehun doesn’t gives two shits.

Siwon gives a quick look over at the corps group, before waltzing over to his precious gems. Luhan has his arm thrown over Seulgi, who’s trying to squeeze in a few words with Siwon while getting on her bottom to do warm ups. Jongin’s smile threatens to wither, because Luhan doesn’t look over at him.

“Jongin,” Sehun whispers. “Straddles, before Siwon starts spitting in Russian—then we’re all in hell.” Jongin nods quickly with Soojung’s tittering laughter in the back. Straddles aren’t the worst, just the case of keeping a hip in place and legs on either end. Stay still, but not too still.

Soojung keeps her hips still and her stomach flat on the floor, looking up at Jongin with bright eyes. “You free later? I’m going with Minseok-oppa to that Seoulite night farmer’s market. You know, the one that hangs around until 1 AM?”

Sehun’s ears perk up in interest, craning his neck to see her clearly. “Farmer’s market? Oh, where?” Jongin grins when he looks back at his best friend, whose eyes are blatantly eager and his hands twitching to grab a few freshies for dinner.

“You know the station line 2? We take that on Exit 9 and we’re in a little corner of Seoul,” she beams, tapping the glossy floor with clean cut nails. “Except Minseok is driving. Come! We all like a little freshies in our lives.” Jongin knows what she means. The supermarket down the street from the Theatre claims it’s organic and fresh, but it never really is.

“Do you want to go?” Sehun looks over at Jongin, pointing his feet and keeping his hands at his ribs. “I can make that gaji-naengguk you like.”

Soojung scrunches up her nose. “You’re the only one I know that likes eggplants, Jongin.”

Jongin smiles, ruffling up his hair before setting his hands back at his thighs. “You must not know a lot of people then,” he says with a light tease. “Luhan-hyung likes eggplants, too.”

Soojung giggles, whereas Sehun snorts.

“So are you going or not?” Soojung asks for what probably lands as the third time. “Got to tell Minseok so he can clear his junk out of the back seat, don’t tell him I said that. He’ll kick me out of the car.”

Jongin laughs, but keeps a bit of it suppressed in the practice room. “Sorry Soojung, I’m back here for an extra hour. Maybe next time?” he pouts, tugging at the skin of his tights.

“You always say that,” Sehun says, playfully pushing the other’s shoulder; his hand lingers. “Okay. Still want that broth made?”

Jongin nods eagerly. “Yes, yes!” he nearly throws himself back in a small-lived joy, but there’s only a mirror to catch his fall and too many handfuls of people. “Eggplants, Sehun makes the best gaji-naengguk, always.” That seems to make the boy happy, so he doesn’t say anything more, only muttering about Jongin’s odd love for the purple vegetable.

After the straddles comes the splits, which are, nearly the same as the former just more moving around. Warm-ups are reserved for the grumbling of last night’s cramps and brief exchanges. Talk, but not too much. Be loud, but not too loud. A routine that followed them into adulthood, of stretching in the far corner with mismatching legwarmers and talking about the exciting things that occur off-stage.

But Jongin finds a comfort in between talks with Sehun and Soojung, like looking around at everyone because no one notices.

Luhan turns his head in between his arms, and flashes a brief smile towards Jongin that he wonders if the elder even smiled at all. But Jongin smiles back anyways, even with his head full of dark curls staring back at him.

“...And then I threw my pointes at a mirror and it shattered! Can you even believe—,” Soojung cuts herself short, narrowing her eyes at Jongin. “Hey, Jongin, are you even paying attention?” Sehun chuckles, and with an arm stretch he reaches over to stroke Jongin’s face fondly.

“Of course he was, right?” Sehun looks right at Jongin playfully, and Soojung huffs, though it’s not out of frustration.

“Y-yeah,” Jongin stammers, and his ears flush a lover’s pink. He looks down in embarrassment, tugging at his baggy t-shirt. “No...I’m sorry.”

Soojung laughs it off, shrugging off the glare of the girl beside her. “He’s always making me feel bad,” she whines, her voice tripping over the line and ending somewhere near a quiet voice. “Just look at his face, I feel bad for teasing.” She pouts, and Jongin finds himself looking at eleven-year-old Soojung again, when her satin blue slippers didn’t match her purple tights.

“I really am sorry, Soojung. What was that about your pointes? Did the glass hurt you?” Jongin prods her with questions, trying to make up for it, because it’s the right thing to do. _The right thing._ “Did it?”

Soojung tugs at a loose strand that escaped her bun. A few more straddles, maybe ten more. “I was just trying to break it in. Sooyeon threw a fit, because it was _her_ mirror. The little _witch_ can practice with a tiny mirror now.” Sehun makes an unattractive sound at that.

“Sooyeon isn’t so,” Jongin grunts with a stretch. Last night’s accidents now eased with rolling back his shoulders. “Bad. She’s pretty.” Of course she had to be pretty, Jongin thinks. She danced with Luhan in Swan Lake—she _has_ to be pretty.

The only thing preventing her from snarling at the name of Sooyeon is Siwon’s watchful eyes and his slow strides around the room, and her mouth seals shut with her lips thin and glossed. Silently—well, of the like, shuffling ballet flats and slippers—they all rise to their feet, some quicker than others. _Plies,_ like it is six days out of the week. That seventh day can be done at home, or out drinking with a stranger from Hongdae.

Jongin is always in front of someone, someone he can always watch. Whether it be Yoona’s perfect posture to mimic,but be watchful of her bad ankles. Sometimes, it’ll be Ryeowook, whose grace bypasses the pretty in pink or cruising black bruised ballerinas.

And Sehun, Sehun is always behind Jongin. And he’s glad, because Sehun won’t judge him for what he does, for what mistakes he makes. And he sighs inwardly, doing the outward feet motion and bending knees, all the while breathing down on someone’s neck.

 

 

♕♕♕

Jongin was only ten when Markova died.

Markova was of a beautiful sort on her flat feet, but she was stunning en pointe with decorative costumes served to catch attention. His sisters teased his flimsy heart for his _crush_ on some retired ballerina, but he shook it off, always pinning photographs of the world-famous ballet danseur on his blue walls.

But it wasn’t a crush; not really. He wanted to _be_ like her, to be loved by many and get flowers tossed on the stage—just for him. To have the spotlight on him, and chase him through and through on a stage just for him. Just for Jongin.

The hall is decorated with photographs and paintings of danseurs alike, Fonteyn in red and Chabukiani in the nude. Markova’s pretty photos seem so crowded, neighbored by other brilliant dancers. Nearly none of them stand out; not on a wall dimly lit by a chandelier too old to swing so low.

It’s almost like the corps de ballet, pretty but nothing more than a painting in the background.

Jongin doesn’t have to go this way to get to the _De Valois_ studio, no, he could’ve followed Sehun and Soojung through the dark halls meant for footwork. But to him, it loses its magic, the kind of delicate and universal feeling the theatre has. He won’t let the dark blue halls and freezing corridors fade the magic this place has. Even if, a little bit has gone astray.

He shuffles his feet past the wall of artists, his ballet flats noiseless and his legwarmers threatening to droop from the elastic. Jongin stumbles a bit before getting to a crouch, hastily tugging the warmers further up so they kiss his knees. The theatre is always _cold._ Summertime can come and stay for as long as it wants, but the warmth never budges further than the entrance. The heatings are all running they say, but it still doesn’t do anything to keep their teeth from chattering in the dressing rooms.

 _Left, take another left and a sharp right_ —Jongin slips past the double juniper doors, nearly shrieking when his arm brushes past something sharp.

“Oh, oh I’m sorry!” A familiar voice says briskly, bending down to grab a hold of his boxes. “Could you hold those doors—yes, thank you, Jongin.” The man makes a sound that sounds like a whimper or a whine, shrugging off his coat with his leg holding the door.

“Dr. Kim,” Jongin says, in a daze. “Those boxes...are you leaving the medical team here?” Packages of egg-shelled colored boxes, scattered in a select area. Jongin’s frown deepens, looking up at Doctor Jongdae. “But you’ve been so good, why are you leaving? You like us right, you said you like me and ballet so why are you leaving—,”

“Whoa,” says Jongdae in a breathy laugh. “You talk so fast Jongin. No, no one is leaving the medical team. Don’t get your dance belt in a knot.”

Jongin looks down bashfully. “That would hurt a lot.”

“Yeah it would,” Jongdae agrees. “These boxes aren’t mine, well okay, they are. Junk, though. We’re getting some special case for the medical team here. Did Joonmyun tell you?”

Jongin shakes his head. Joonmyun doesn’t say much about any other department. The medical is a hush hush, only for those with bad ankles or chronic pain. Jongin ends up in Jongdae’s a few times a week, for the little lick in his shoulder.

“Ah well, we’re getting someone. Someone fresh and new.” Jongdae makes a wave of his arms, his white sleeves threatening to un-cuff along with his glasses sliding down his nose. “Anyways, I’m just clearing up the space for the new guy.”

Jongin nods in understanding. “Does he like ballet?”

Jongdae laughs shortly, his cough cutting himself off. Jongin flinches, the man’s sneezes and coughs harsh to his ears. “Stupid cold. Er, I don’t know. He’s good though. Nutrition stuff, also got a hand in physical therapy. Doesn’t that make you dancers feel more comfortable?” Jongin smiles, but it’s not really true. It’s never comfortable in the medic room, with a therapist massaging down on bruised shoulders and breathing down on his neck about what a mess his entire structure is.

“So there will be four of you then?” Jongin asks, secretly counting on his fingers the men and women in white and black coats in the medic.

“Uh huh. It’ll be great, for me, I mean. And you guys. But I’ll have a guy to talk to now when I’m not handling a sore knee.” Jongdae rolls up his sleeves, bending over to snatch up a few loose papers he had dropped earlier. “I love Dr. Lim and Dr. Yubin and all, but it just gets so tiring listening to talk about what mixed drinks they like.”

Jongin lets a small laugh come through, earning a pleasant smile from Jongdae. “Are you not one for mixed drinks, Doctor?”

Jongdae shakes his head vigorously. “Cold beer straight from the States. Like a man.” Jongin has seen Budweiser cases stacked high in the refrigerator in the back—all for Luhan and his guests, and sometimes for Sehun when’s enjoying a night off. Jongin can’t find any charm in the bitterness, which often earns him a chuckle from Lu and a hand under the chin, ‘ _you baby’._

“I should head to my class,” Jongin says apologetically, looking around at the mess in the halls. “I’m sorry...if I had time I’d...I’d help.” His cheeks redden to bruised peaches, and he’s quick to rub his hands all over his face.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jongdae dismisses him. “Dr. Kim has it all in the bag. Almost. See you later, Jongin?” he shoots a jaunty wave and a curl of lips, the kind of disarming smile that seems to make every girl in the company swoon.

“See you, Dr. Kim.” Jongin gives a slight bow before scurrying off, leaving the Doctor behind swearing and muttering at boxes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, though he’s already down the hall and Jongdae is already on his feet, stacking the boxes high.

Jongin works the door knob left and right, already hearing all of the chattering behind the doors. The De Valois studio is his favorite, because it’s bright by default. No worrying about the lights shutting off in the after hours; and it’s not so big that he feels so, so _small._

 _Five Coryphées._ but there’s more than five people in the studio. Jongin hurries over to Sehun’s side, plopping right in the middle of him and Minseok. “Sorry,” Jongin says as he snuggle-presses against Sehun’s arm, because he smells like home when they’re at the company, but the other way around when they’re at home. “I saw Dr. Kim in the halls with boxes. A lot of them.”

“You know he doesn’t like being called, _Dr._ Kim.” Minseok says playfully, his pretty eyes bright when he talks. He looks the most comfortable, always, with a knitted scarf that snakes his neck, and warmers for his arms. Sensitive to the cold; and he looks so pleasant. “I think you make him feel old.”

Jongin flushes a weak pink. “I don’t mean to. He’s young! Dr. Ki—Jongdae-ssi is only thirty.”

“Thirty-one, he just told you that so he’ll seem young,” adds Sehun. “Like how Minseok tells everyone he’s into rock solid black when his bedsheets are pink—,”

Minseok leans over and flicks the younger one on the forehead, earning him a yelp. “Shut up,” he says flatly. “I’ll have Jongin here spill all your dirty secrets. Tell me, Jongin, does he wear striped toe socks? Or rock his perky ass out to H.O.T?”

Jongin stares at his hands in his lap, tugging gently at the tight material close to his thigh. “I shouldn’t say...Sehun will be mad at me.” Minseok snickers, falling back onto the mirror, pleased. “Are striped toe socks bad?”

Sehun blinks. “No.”

Jongin nods, quietly adjusting his t-shirt; a borrowed one from Luhan’s closet. The elder has a thing for wearing too baggy clothes, because it almost hides him. It’s wrinkled towards the hems and smells like tobacco, but of all the smells, it’s his absolute favorite.

The other corps member starts to draw towards the middle, with the girls taping up their toes before stuffing them into pointes. The guys are piled on top of each other, colorfully and animatedly discussing something that Jongin is never a part of.

Soojung has one leg warmer off when she slips into Minseok’s side. “Can’t believe we have the Da Valois room today. It’s so bright, I swear. I’m going to come out blind and suing.” She grumbles a bit, like she always does. “Of course, the bigger and better get the Fonteyn studio, it’s actually warm and cozy in there.”

“The brightness isn’t so bad,” Sehun says, shrugging half-heartedly. Jongin nods eagerly, looking around until his eyes land on the long panel of windows that runs from the top to the bottom. “You’re just overreacting.” Soojung sticks her tongue out, turning away from Sehun as a slight and weak attempt of defiance.

Minseok is ready to say something before the door swings open, and a hush of silence trips over them. A couple of the quick-thinkers are on their feet, already pushing their heads down in a bow. Jongin is one of them, though he stumbles a bit getting up, nearly tripping over a sweatshirt on the ground. Director Joonmyun is also a quick-thinker, holding out a hand. “No need to get up, just listen.” He smiles, and it’s a smile that seems to offer eternal euphoria, or the pursuit of happiness if you’re willing to write your name down on a contract. It’s one of those things, and that is exactly what Jongin and every forty-two ballet dancers in the company did. “Is Hyeyeon-ssi here yet?”

Hyeyeon, in quick and graceful steps—it’s expected of her— gives a slight head bow. “Good morning, Director.” Her face holds fleeting confusion, and though brief, Joonmyun catches it with an ease. “I wasn’t expecting—,”

“Are they rehearsing the Red Queen scene?” he asks gently, turning to look at all of them.

“Yes, we’re waiting for Seulgi to ready herself.” Hyeyeon looks around with a frown, lines etched around her lips. “She’s getting into her rehearsal clothes, sir.” There’s an unspoken _I think_ at the end of her sentence, because who knows what Seulgi does, nor do they really care.

“Alright then. Luhan and Sooyeon are working on their garden scene,so I’m left free to,” he makes a gesture that speaks too worldly and quickly for them, “see the most memorable scene in practice.” Jongin smiles slightly at the sound of Luhan’s name. He’s playing _Jack_ in the ballet, beautiful in red and white.

As if on cue, the doors creak open, exposing a red-faced Seulgi. “Sorry for the hold up, I had trouble with my ribbons. I didn’t...I forgot to burn the ends and...” she trails off, her face turning to a beaten tomato at the sight of Joonmyun. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

“Yes, yes, en retard.” Hyeyeon’s frown deepens. “Please take a few minutes to ready yourself. The dukes, please stand up.” Joonmyun sits in silence, on a pulled-out chair with his leg over the other, his smile never leaving his lower face.

Jongin, Sehun, Minseok, and the last Duke, Hansol all get to their feet. Jongin’s rib cage rattles and his heart beats rapidly. The _Alice in Wonderland_ ballet has been ongoing all week, the scenes and dance routines burned onto skin slates and they have the callouses to prove it. However, Jongin’s heart is stuck in his throat, because their _Director_ is here.

 _Please, please don’t let me have an attack right here. Please let me rehearse in peace, please don’t let them think I’m crazy again._ Though smiling and keeping his face gentle, sweat cloaks his chest and constricts it, mild paranoia swarming his head.

Seulgi hurries to the center, her eyes dilated and a few strands of hair stroking her temples. Hyeyeon stands in front of them by a few feet, tapping her foot to a rhythm. “Like always, Seulgi will dance as if she is ungraceful, you should remember the basics. And her dukes,” she nods towards each of them. “Expression. Expression is key in this scene, do not let any emotion falter.”

They nod.

The music plays, and Seulgi’s paper face flips to the _Red Queen._ Her tutu flares out, digging into Jongin’s side when he holds her waist. The same goes for Sehun when she spins towards him and Minseok when he holds her weight. Heavy breathing exchanged with recycled oxygen and carbon dioxide, body mass pressed together to create a trance of eloquence to replace the lack of humanity in their dance.

And Jongin, Jongin keeps smiling and smiling, even when his head cogs, jamming and begging, _please, please, don’t let me look crazy._

He doesn’t hear the music.

 

 

♕♕♕

Joonmyun stands up, patting imaginary dust off his sweater. “Hyeyeon,” he calls out, his voice still sweet, but firm. “Lunch break is due, they’ve done the same scene over and over thoroughly.” The music ends like a crooked player, and they all drop their arms, and Seulgi clutches her throat, breathing heavily.

“It’s the audience’s favorite scene,” Hyeyeon says with a huff, as if she had been the one on her toes and doing twirls. “Aside from the caterpillar. And Seulgi’s footstep is a bit wobbly.”

“It’s meant to be wobbly,” Seulgi argues, and Minseok clamps a hand over her mouth. It’s too late. Hyeyeon’s eye twitches, her braided hair flung over her shoulder. Minseok sighs inwardly, letting his hand drop limply and scoots aside. “I mean...my footwork. I perfected it to imperfection!”

Hyeyeon opens her mouth to say something when Joonmyun takes a few steps closer. “Perfected to imperfections?” he asks, smiling wryly. Seulgi, flustered, presses closer to Jongin’s side unconsciously. He squirms when her bony shoulder gnaws at his arm, but he doesn’t say anything. “The scene where Minseok is meant to clutch your waist and Sehun offers you the tart—you had kicked Minseok and Hansol out of reflex. Yes, perfected to imperfections; but let there be none when it comes to your co-dancers.”

Minseok looks away.

“And your grip on Jongin slipped before the final grace; he made a quick move to grip on your forearms. Now,” Joonmyun’s smile doesn’t falter when he takes a few steps closer, a few breaths and inches away from Seulgi’s face. “Hennessy cognac, I can smell it past your perfume.”

“I...” her eyelashes flutter furiously, batting up and down that Jongin worries that an eyelash or two will get stuck. “It was only a few drinks...I...had a few sips. You can blame Luhan for it.”

Joonmyun leans back, exposing an agitated Hyeyeon. Jongin straightens up at the name. _No, don’t blame Lu-hyung,_ he wants to say, wants to scream. _It’s not his fault you can’t drink._

“I saw Luhan dance his part earlier. No trace of a hangover,” Joonmyun tightens his wristwatch, looking around idly. “Seulgi, handle your drinks or stick to soju. Keep your drinking habits at home.” Seulgi looks like she’s ready to cry, but Joonmyun offers a sympathetic smile, nodding a goodbye to everyone before leaving. Hyeyeon shoots Seulgi a withering look that speaks of ‘ _we’ll talk later’_ , and hurries after him.

Seulgi wastes no time wrestling out of her tutu with a huff. “Fucking hell,” she mutters, thrashing around. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Damn him, damn that fucking _Luhan._ ” She whirls her entire body and stares Sehun and Jongin down with a glare.

“So what you had a few drinks?” Minseok asks flatly. “Don’t go off glaring at them. You’re scaring Jongin.” He puts his hand on Seulgi’s shoulder, and she rolls it off, hissing at him.

“You don’t fucking understand. He was looking at _me,_ me for _Giselle_! That chance is ruined, it all went to fucking shit because of your stupid fucker of a roommate!”

Jongin flinches, taking a few steps back, even though Seulgi’s not moving. “Don’t call him that,” he whispers. “Don’t say those things about him.” The corps are all muttering, and Soojung looks anxious.

“He fucked and wined me down,” she snaps, her hair coming undone and her shoulders shaking. There are tears that cuts the corners of her eyes, though no one cares. “He ruined the _chance_ for me. I could’ve been Giselle, _I could have fucking been the star_.” Minseok tries his best to sooth her, shooting Jongin a worried look. Jongin pales, and his grip on Sehun tightens to a deathly grasp.

“Got anything else to say to Luhan?” Sehun asks calmly, patting Jongin’s back gently. “Screaming at his roommates isn’t doing shit. Maybe that’s why you never get the lead roles, Miss _Principal_ dancer.” The corps cease to a hush, and Seulgi’s eyes widen by a margin.

“Especially you. Fuck you. _Fuck_ you,” she says slowly. “Fuck Luhan, fuck you, and fuck your little crazy psycho over there.” She points at Jongin with a shaking hand, before throwing Minseok off her shoulders and running past the doors with a shriek.

“I’ll tell him that!” Sehun shouts dryly, his eyes narrowed. “So that’s where Lu went yesterday—Jongin, are you okay?”

Jongin pulls away from Sehun, burying his face into his sweaty palms. “Y-yeah.” _She called me crazy._ “I’m okay. That scene just pulled a lot from me.”

“Is it because she said—,”

“No!” Jongin says, stumbling. “She didn’t say anything. It’s...it’s lunch hour. Let’s not stay here for too long.” The other corps members are all filing out, muttering quietly and some, not so quietly. He grabs his sweater and nods a goodbye towards his friends, falling into line with the others. He thinks he hears Sehun calling his name, and maybe a hint of Soojung’s voice; but he pays no mind.

Jongin pulls himself away from the other corps as quickly as he can, tugging his sweater over his head hastily and running the other way, his ballet slippers soft and patting against the wooden flooring. This is where ballet loses its magic; in the dancers’ hall painted in a drab orange. He hurries past the signs and elevators, ducking his head under a few ropes. The men soloists’ room is a hall away from the corps’, and he’s all too used to the interior that he knows his way around.

 _Luhan, Luhan, Luhan, Lu._ He wants someone to hold him, to stroke his face and tell him he’s alright. Jongin needs, no, _thrives_ off of someone who smells like smoke and whiskey, to bury his face into his shirt and breathe in everything he has, everything he owns.

Jongin halts at the door, holding his breath like it’s a curse. And maybe it is, his hand falling into a clench before releasing, wanting to rap his knuckles on the door. _I hope he’s not busy,_ he thinks sorrowfully. _Please don’t be busy._ He knocks once and twice for some luck.

“Whoever it is,” Luhan’s voice rings out. “It’s just me here.”

Jongin, relieved, opens the door hesitantly, poking his head through the door with his ankles brushing against each other. “Hyung...” he whispers, tapping against the wooden frame a couple times. Luhan looks over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, it’s you.” Luhan pats an empty chair, his feet kicked up on the table, bared. “Jonginnie, keep me company.”

“Okay.” Jongin shuffles over to the seat, climbing until he sinks into it. “You’re not out for lunch with them?”

Luhan snorts. “Not with those bastards.” He eyes Jongin up and down. “No lunch for you?”

Jongin shakes his head. “I wanted...I wanted to find you.” He looks down sheepishly, scooting his seat in a bit closer to Luhan. He’s holding up a smoke, not a joint, today. “It’s going to smell in here, hyung.”

“Good,” he says shortly, puffing out pretty smokes. “Maybe the place will burn, too.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I’ll burn with it.”

Jongin frowns, but doesn’t say anything more. He fiddles with the ends of his sweater, eyeing the cancer stick between Luhan’s lips in awe. His lips are glossed in makeup, having done a scene where he played Jack the pretty boy, even if in real life he’s just Jack, the jackass. A smear of the red tint comes off and rubs onto the cigarette, and it looks so _daunting._

Luhan notices, and holds out the stick to Jongin. “Want a smoke?” Jongin’s lips part.

“I don’t...” he looks away. “Is that okay?”

“My Jonginnie looks tense,” he says lightly. “Maybe some smoke in your lungs can ease that, _sweetie._ ” The last word drips off his tongue almost teasingly, as if he knows Jongin likes it—of course he does, of course. Jongin takes the cigarette from Luhan slowly, fitting it between his two fingers. With practice, he pushes it between his lips and blows out a smoke. “My sweetie is so _pretty,_ so pretty when he smokes.”

“Really?” Jongin asks around the cigarette. He scrunches up his nose. No matter how many times Luhan has offered up a smoke, it always feels foreign; weird. “Sehun and hyung...you don’t look pretty. You...you and him look comfortable.” Yes, comfortable, Jongin decides. Like it’s meant for them, that cancer stick. While amateur and rookie for Sehun, it seems as if it’s second nature to Luhan.

“You’re different,” Luhan says with shrug, reaching out to take back the stick. “You are _very_ different.” His table is littered with water bottles and a near empty pack of his smokes.

Jongin thinks Luhan is sculpted specifically to be a smoker. His lips fit like a mold around the stick. Jongin remembers the first time he smoked; he was fourteen with the feeling of a smoky blanket choking his lungs and the urge to cough kept suffocating him. Luhan had grinned with a sour smile at the age of twenty-three, consoling him as he tried to grasp the idea of breathing in something that wasn’t _air._

But _Luhan—_ oh, Luhan is an art. His delicate hand cupping the cigarette when he takes one, shadowing the cherry light like it’s one of his most prized possessions. Jongin remembers being fifteen, curled up in bed with Luhan during one of his mid-twenty crisis as he breathed out dragon breaths and broken teenage angst as an adult. Luhan rarely coughs taking it in. Often times, his lashes flutter shut and his back arches in response to the buzz of smoke coaxing a sigh out of him.

Luhan is art, and Jongin learned that at the age of fourteen.

Jongin holds up the cigarette away from his mouth, the feeling always foreign to him no matter how many times Luhan offers. The man offers his coffin nails like they’re peace tokens, with a half-emptied lighter dug deep within his pockets full of the universe’s secrets. _It’s the universe’s lighter,_  he sometimes says, _it’s Prometheus’ lighter, the fucker who stole fire from the gods._ He hands the cigarette back to Luhan who laughs without ever opening his mouth before licking his lips ‘til they’re glazed over, glossy like his eyes.

“I did the _Red Queen_ scene, the one with Seulgi,” Jongin starts, digging his nails into his knees. “Director Joonmyun watched.”

“Ah, did he?” Luhan asks with feigned ignorance.

Jongin chews on his bottom lip. Luhan turns to look at him, his hair disheveled and his lashes long and suggestive. “Did you make her drink? So that...she couldn’t get the role?”

Luhan blinks, and for a moment, Jongin wonders if the expression of hurt betrays his face; or if it’s just his imagination. “Really?” he asks, his voice flat. “Did you really think that I forced alcohol down her scrawny throat?”

“N-no!”

Luhan turns away, mushing the cigarette into the table before flicking it away. “I drank, so she drank. Really, Jongin, have a little faith in your _hyung._ ” He offers a rueful smile, and it withers as quickly as it came. “It’s not like she can even play Giselle. Giselle is gentle, charming. Seulgi is paper and used.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Jongin reaches out for Luhan’s hands, which end up feeling cold in his. “Can you...can you do something for me?”

“Don’t know.”

Jongin smiles. “I just...I need someone to hold me.” His voice weak and threatening to snap like rope. His thoughts trails back to Seulgi pointing an accusing finger at him, ‘ _little crazy psycho’._ It’s not true, it’s not true at all. But they don’t care. “I’m cold.”

Luhan stares at him, expressionless. Jongin droops, ready to pull away at the sound of _no._ But it doesn’t come. Instead, Luhan turns his chair around, scooting over a bit so there’s just enough room. “You like my touches, huh.” He pats the chair, and Jongin wastes no time crawling into the space. “Cute kid.”

 _Kid._ Luhan isn’t so old, twenty-nine isn’t old. But Jongin feels smaller despite being taller than the elder, an age difference of nine years makes him feel young and vulnerable in Luhan’s presence. Jongin curls in closer to Luhan, pushing his shoulders down so that he’s just under Luhan’s chin. He breathes happily, when the familiar smell of tobacco and cologne fills him up, and he feels at peace.

Luhan’s hand goes up a little bit under his shirt, stroking his skin. “Such a baby, Jongin. You’re such a baby.”

“Seulgi-noona called me crazy again,” Jongin says into his chest. “In front of everyone.” _Again._

“Did you have an episode?” Luhan asks calmly, and Jongin can hear his heartbeat.

Jongin shakes his head. “I took my medications, I didn’t have an episode. She just, she just _did._ ” Luhan’s chest shakes in a laugh against his ear. “Why did you let her drink, hyung? And...loved her afterward.”

At that, Luhan’s laughter is more pronounced. “ _Loved_ her afterward? Such _sweet_ and endearing word choices.” Jongin digs his knees into Luhan’s thighs, but the latter doesn’t seem to mind. “Do you want me to _love_ you like I loved her?”

Jongin freezes, and he’s thankful that Luhan can’t see how wide his eyes are. “That’s okay. Thank you, though.” The material of his tights is rough against his skin when Luhan runs his fingers in a circle. It’s harsh against his skin, it’s almost numbing. “Is that a different kind of love?”

“They’re all the same.”

“Oh...” Jongin trails off, not wanting to ask anymore. It’ll get complicated; or it’ll just annoy Luhan. “I didn’t know.” Luhan hums, raising his hand to bury his fingers into the younger one’s mass of charcoal hair. It’s so stimulating, sensual and everything nice.

“Talk, Jongin. It’s so quiet in here,” says Luhan. But it’s not, Jongin thinks, the heater is loud and a piece of Tchaikovsky, maybe from _Sleeping Beauty, plays in the background._

“Uh, okay, hyung.” Jongin sits up, now a few inches taller than Luhan. The latter looks up at him with an unreadable expression, but it’s no surprise. Lu is one who speaks with double entendres, even sighted in his eyes when he’s not so high. Jongin starts off slowly, wanting to savor the lazy look on his face. “Jongdae-ssi says we’re getting a new guy for the medic thing. Maybe he’ll be nice.”

“Uh huh.”

“I hope he’s nice,” Jongin continues. “It’ll be nice to make a new friend.” He must of looked wistful, because Luhan reaches over to tug on a strand of Jongin’s hair, twirling it around his fingers.

Luhan grins. “What if it’s some sleazy old man?” he leans in to whisper into Jongin’s ear, parting his lips just _good_ enough so that his teeth grazes soft flesh. “Or a woman that reeks of sex?”

“What does sex smell like?” Jongin asks, genuinely curious.

Luhan pulls back. “Like me.”

“...You smell nice, though.”

They stay like that, for a little bit. Talking about the dancers through murmurs. Jongin, with his folded up legs so he doesn’t squish Luhan, and the elder pressing kisses to the former’s forehead, neck, and cheek, sometimes a touch of dried lips or with bruising force. He toys with his hyung’s fingers, running over the calloused and bruised knuckles colored yellow. “Ugly hands, huh?” Luhan asks, though it’s meant to be rhetorical. “Not so pretty.”

“No,” Jongin says quickly, grasping on his fingers before he can pull away. “They’re not ugly. Nothing about hyung is ugly. Hyung is...Luhan-hyung is perfect.”

“Did Sehun go to lunch with the other corps?” Luhan asks instead.

Jongin thinks. “I’m sure he did. I...I sort of left him. Ran away from him.” He brings his head down, so that his chin brushes his collar. “Do you think Sehun is going to be mad at me for that? Or sad?”

Luhan’s eyes flicker towards the clock. Lunch hour ends in ten minutes. “You’re asking a lot of questions again.” He nudges Jongin’s side. “You’re so curious.”

“I...” Jongin sighs. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that, too.” Luhan cards his fingers towards his own knotty hair. Jongin stands up, fiddling with his sleeves as he looks around the soloists’ room. It’s not so different from the corps, just not as cramped. Posters of previous and upcoming ballets are plastered on the wall, some with precision while others are barely hanging by tape. The _Alice in Wonderland_ one stands out the most. Sooyeon’s hair is hidden under a mass of unrealistically blond curls; a tutu flared out at her waist. “Do you want to know why Alice fell into that rabbit hole?”

Jongin feels uneasy, and he tries to keep his voice soft and normal; sort of. “She wanted to follow the white rabbit.” Sooyeon is the Alice of the Seoul Theatre, and from the sidelines Jongin always watched her fall through the trapdoor on stage. It was such a mesmerizing sight—even if all Sooyeon did was land on a mattress under the stage.

“No,” Luhan stands up, tugging his shirt down so it covers his crotch. “Because Lewis Carroll made her. Manipulative.” He stuffs his pack of cigarettes into his bag, tossing it back into his locker before anyone can return and call him out on it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice in Wonderland Syndrome (also known as Todd's syndrome, or lilliputian hallucinations) is a disorienting neurological condition that affects human perception. Cases are rare and usually only affects children, or in this case, those with childlike minds.


	2. Lover of Misfit

 

 

“Shit, oh fuck, Minseok! Where’s my brush?” Sehun calls frantically, rummaging through his drawer with one hand. “I lent it to you last show, right? Oh God, tell me that I lent it to you last show.”

Minseok shakes his head, tightening his collar. “Sorry, but I don’t have it. You lent it to Taeyong.”

“And where’s Taeyong?”

Jongin runs a comb through his hair. “On stage.” Sehun groans, quick to bury his face in his palms but careful not to smudge. “Take my brushes, dust off the powder first, though.” Jongin hands him the bundle tied with an elastic. Sehun grins, hurrying back to his seat to set his stage makeup.

It’s their second show of the night. They can hear the music piece stringing through the stage and flooring as they’re quick to stumble in their ballet flats and costumes. Red tights and a number plastered across their chest to match with Hansol, the opposite black for Minseok and Sehun. The others are dressed in their _court member_ outfits, all vibrant and decorative.

Jongin looks back at himself, pleased. Now, the males don’t have to spend so much time on makeup as the girls do; Soojung often complaining how hard it is to put on her powder with such little time. But Jongin likes to sit as close as he can to perfection, even if it’s a little far away.

“ _Here, thanks for lending me your brush_!” Sehun screams, nudging him with the butt of the cosmetic tool. Jongin jerks, hitting his back against the side of his table. Sehun’s voice shakes Jongin, his ears ringing.

Jongin takes the brushes warily. “Why...why are you screaming? You’re being so loud, Sehun.” He brings a hand to his ear and tugs on it. Sehun narrows his eyes, his brows knitting together. He leans closer to Jongin, inspecting his face with arched confusion.

“ _What do you mean?_ ” Sehun shrieks, and Jongin flinches,now bringing both hands to his ears. He remembers watching a movie at home about these creatures, banshees, and how they practically came to life with their blood curdling screeches and screams. “ _I’m not yelling, Jongin. What are you talking about—,_ ” he stops himself short, his eyes widening. Sehun looks around anxiously, lines forming at the corners of his lips.

“What are you covering your ears for?” Minseok asks, his voice thundering and lashing out at Jongin. _Oh, no, no, no,_ Jongin thinks, his heartbeat accelerating. And maybe it stopped; even for a small second. _No, no, no, not right now, no no no._ “ Are you ignoring us?” _Stop it, stop it, it’s sO LOUD._

Jongin stands up with a jolt, nearing knocking over his chair. He forces his hands to come down, and it’s clear that they’re shaking. “No,” he whispers, voice cracked. Sehun elbows Minseok sharply, but Jongin doesn’t care. He mutters something about the rest room, before hurrying out, eyes brimmed with tears as his ears threaten to bleed. He hears a lot of things, like Sehun screeching after him though he’s really whispering. He hears Minseok asking Sehun what’s wrong with him, why did he ran out like that. It’s all _so_ loud, so, _so_ loud, even with Sehun’s response of ‘ _don’t ask’_ thick and piercing.

He gets as far as he can, a couple of stumbles and bruising bumps, sliding down in the middle of the empty corridor. He’s glad, because everyone else is either on stage, on the sidelines, or getting ready. The faint music that he heard earlier through the ceiling comes crashing down on him, the orchestra pit’s violas and cellos scratching against his ears.

Jongin starts to shake, clawing at his chest and digging his heels into the carpet flooring. _I hate this, I hate this I hate-._ They always happen at night, every day. He _should_ be used to them, find a way around them—but he never did, and Jongin’s left alone. It doesn’t get easier, it _never_ does. His own whimpering doesn’t sound so loud compared to the thumping of his head against the wall.

 _Luhan...Sehun, please, I need someone I need I neED need—,_ “Jongin?” So loud, it’s so Goddamn loud. Jongin stands up quickly, wiping away at his eyes. Jongdae is still in his clothes from earlier, except a bit more clean cut on the whole hair thing and he’s not wearing glasses. “Jongin, what’s wrong?”

Jongdae grips the side of his arms. He’ll pretend, he decides, he’ll act. Act as if he’s okay, as if he’s not hearing everything too loudly. He smiles through the makeup and the burn at the back of his throat. “Nothing, Dr. Kim, I’m just...” and he leaves it at that, as if the silence can conjure an answer. “Are you watching the show?”

It’s been five minutes, and his episode is already fading from a scream to loud shouting. Jongin visibly relaxes, prying his own eyes open again. And when he does, Jongdae looks back at him with concern, the same expression mimed in the stranger next to him.

“I’m not, but,” Jongdae gives the stranger a pat on the shoulder, whose height is so awkward that Jongdae has to reach up to do so, earning a wry smile from him. “He is. Remember the doctor I was telling you about earlier? He’s here to watch the show.” The man smiles, exposing a mouthful of perfect teeth bare to the bone in white.

Jongin bows his head, grateful that he’s not hearing those banshees again. Though still visibly pale and dilated eyes betraying him, he returns the stranger’s smile. “Welcome to the Seoul Theatre of Ballet,” he says shyly, hugging his arms. “I’m a...I’m a senior corps member, Jongin. I hope you like the work environment.” Jongdae chuckles at that, his sharp cheekbones going up and down as he does so.

“Uh huh, that’s our little Jongin of the theatre,” Jongdae says to the man, eyes flickering over to the former with a warm hue. “You’ll love him. He also ends up in the medic room more often than he should.” Jongdae says it all without conviction, and Jongin knows it’s just teasing. He looks away in embarrassment, though, tugging at his arms harder. His head, still blurred with the attack a few minutes ago, leaves him wordless.

“I’m Chanyeol,” the man gives him a name, and a small head bow. Jongin nearly jumps at the velvety voice. It doesn’t suit his soft features, but it’s...it’s nice. Yes, Jongin decides, it’s nice. “I look forward to seeing you on stage tonight, Jongin-ssi.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Jongdae wrinkles up his nose as Chanyeol stiffens. “Good luck with Jonginnie by the way, Yeol. It’s been five years and I still haven’t gotten him to call me hyung.” Chanyeol laughs a bit, and it sounds polite.

For once, Jongin is okay with the auditory... _hallucinations,_ because Chanyeol’s voice isn’t so bad when it’s loud. Jongdae falls into short conversation with Chanyeol about the _Alice in Wonderland_ show, his hair bouncing with each animated hand motion. Jongin shuffles around quietly, as his hearing wavers. Up and down, and down and up.

“Jongin? Jongin!” At the sound of his name, he whirls around on his heels, his flats keeping him steady. Sehun hurries towards him, his costume getting in the way of his face when he moves. Jongin sighs out of relief, his shoulders at rest when he takes quick steps closer to his best friend, his little comfort zone.

“Sehunnie,” Jongin breathes out, stumbling towards him with a light headache. The after effects are the pinnacle of his episodes; when he’s the woozy, the highest high. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I ran out I didn’t...” Sehun grabs him by the arm without much force. The signature wrinkle between his brows fades, pulling the latter closer to his side. He holds out a post-it note, scribbled in nearly illegible handwriting with its curves and squiggles.

_Are you_

_okay? Your_

_hearing_

Jongin’s lips curl reading it. “I’m okay,” he whispers, burying his face into Sehun’s shoulder. “Just...a headache. You can talk.” He adds in the last part as a darker secret, aware of Jongdae and Chanyeol’s presence a couple feet away. Sehun crumples up the note and looks over at Jongin.

“Oh, hi hyung,” Sehun waves. “Gross fashion, by the way.” He nearly snorts at Jongdae’s bow tie fitted with too-tight pants.

Jongdae’s sweet face turns sour. “Brat, I was trying to impress newcomer over here.” Chanyeol looks out of place, but then again, no one really fits in anyways. They do the whole greeting thing again, and he is still polite and doesn’t say too much out of context.

“I think he looks nice,” Jongin offers, his voice muffled in Sehun’s side. He can let go, he should let go. But still feeling a little unsettled after the whole ordeal, he just wants to hold on and hide in a little bit of comfort. Jongdae makes a noise of triumph, throwing in clapping and followed by a loud hoot.

“Jongin thinks everyone looks nice,” Sehun says unhelpfully, his voice close to Jongin’s ear, but it’s not loud. “Love to stay and chat about your bow tie, but we should get up there. Luhan’s Jackass scene with Sooyeon is up and it’ll be done in a few minutes.”

“It’s Jack though.” Jongin looks confused. “Jack the garden boy.”

A scoff. “Not with him playing it.” They move away from the doctors, Jongin’s arms wrapped around Sehun’s tightly and desperate. Sehun strokes the side of his face as they move towards the elevator, and Jongin melts into his touch. “Hey...are you okay? Auditory issues this time, huh?” His voice is laced with concern, and Jongin hates it.

“Uh huh, I heard yelling. It wasn’t...it wasn’t nice.”

“Sorry,” Sehun winces. “My voice probably sounded terrible to your ears then.”

“I’ll always like your voice,” says Jongin when they press the UP button. “Even...when it’s loud.”

Minseok greets them when they exit the elevator, his exaggerated powdered cheeks puffed out. “Thought you two would be late,” he looks over at Jongin carefully. “Feel better? Sehun said you had a cold and it got to you.” Jongin hesitates, but nods. “That’s good, at least. Go home and rest okay? Sehun, make sure to snag a couple of stuff for his soup.”

“Got it captain,” Sehun mocks with a salute, earning a playful shove from the elder. His voice sounds hushed though it isn’t, the pit overpowering him with the bass and violins. He nudges Jongin with the side of his face, squishing their cheeks together like they did as kids. “You sure you don’t want to hang out at the market later? You like the fresh food.”

His skin is cool against his. “No thank you. Maybe next time?” Jongin wiggles a little bit under Sehun’s grasp, their costumes digging into each other and lashing out a dull pain. He turns his attention back on Luhan’s part. It’s an act they’ve all seen, either in costume or in a flimsy shirt and shorts. But Luhan looks so _mesmerizing,_ with molded soft features and grace that could steal Sooyeon’s part as _Alice,_ if he had the chance. The last few minutes where he grips on Alice’s waist and holds her up, Jongin wonders if it was a smirk he saw.

The light dims, and Jongin is rushed to the stage with the other corps, cramped as Luhan brushes by him, exiting.

♕♕♕

The shower room smells like roses. Sehun wrinkles his nose, wiggling out of his tights with a sigh. “Fucking,” he breathes out, tugging on it until it’s peeled off. “Free from this hell. I hate tights. I will never be used to them. They dig into my ass when I sit down and god, my dick can’t breathe in this dance belt.” Jongin laughs, doing the same. This comes off a little more easily, careful to fold it up neatly and set it aside in the costume bag for return, later.

“At least they make us look pretty.” Jongin ghosts over his pale skin, smoothing out his knees that are still decked in purple. He frowns and grabs his duffel, peeling off the rest of his costume. It’s mostly silent and devoid of human interaction, save for Jongin and Sehun’s conversations here and there. It comes part of the package.

It never feels weird. Beautiful, injured, and naked bodies often pressing against each other on accident. They’re nearly all one in the same, with the desirable thighs and broad shoulders. It’s beautiful, except it’s not enough.

_Not enough._

All the showers are occupied, but Jongin doesn’t mind. Sitting down and wrapping a towel over an equally dry body, he hums to the piece of the last scene that’s stuck in his head. His focus is disturbed by Ryeowook’s heavy-scented body wash that wafts to the changing rooms. Sehun snarls, hands flying up to his nose. “How can he stand to bathe in that _artificial_ perfume smell? It makes my nose burn like hell.”

Jongin looks up at him through his bangs. “You’re so sensitive, Sehunnie.”

Sehun narrows his eyes. “My nose, is sensitive. My nose.” He throws on his shirt and sits down across from Jongin. He stuffs his hair in his cap, going by the claim that the ‘ _showers suck’_. “I saw pretty girls in the crowd earlier. They were eyeballing you and Minseok like crazy.”

Jongin tucks a few short strands behind his ear. “I’m sure it was you they were looking at,” he says with a gentle smile.

“They couldn’t even see my face under all that makeup,” he deadpans, shifting in his seat. “You probably don’t even know how attractive you are when you dance—”

There’s loud coughing, maybe deliberate or maybe not. Luhan’s bag is slung over his shoulders, his makeup only half-wiped. Sehun scoffs and turns away, scooting a little bit closer to Jongin. Luhan notices, but he doesn’t say anything, only throws his bag on the floor next to theirs and starts to strip. “Enjoyed my scenes again?” Jongin nods vigorously, whereas Sehun just shrugs halfheartedly. “Not you pumpkin, talking to Jongin.”

“Oh shut it,” Sehun mutters, his go-happy sarcasm from earlier fades into the sharp needle pin act they’re all so used to at home. “You don’t shower here, either. Shouldn’t you be hopping on the subway?” Sehun stuffs his balled up fists into his pockets, and Jongin stays quiet against the shower water.

Luhan kicks the back of the wall with his heel, his lips smeared with makeup and he looks so daring. “And leave my precious roommates back here?” he narrows his eyes. “Stop asking questions you already know the answers to, Sehun.”

Sehun scowls, and Jongin pulls his knees to his chest. “Luhan-hyung isn’t going home,” he tells him. “He said...he’d stay after with me for an hour. Practice, extra practice.” He nudges his friend’s side, elbow to ribs. Luhan makes a noise of confirmation, wiping his red lips on the back of his hand, leaving the faint stark of pinkish red on the side.

Sehun musters up a disapproving look that feels final. “Hell, you’re not. You are going home and you’re going to rest. And when I get home,” he jabs a finger at Jongin’s chest. “You are going to eat soup, and crawl _back_ to bed.” Jongin’s face falls, déjà vu washing over him. It’s like the time Jongin was down with the flu; it had tried his mentality, and Sehun kept him under three layers of blankets for days. Jongin shudders at the memory.

“But Sehunnie...”

Luhan eyes them warily through lidded eyes. “What is this, motherly Sehun?” he asks mockingly, slumping down on the seat. “Make me soup, too?”

It’s a joke, the last part.

“Don’t tell him,” Jongin says under his breath, shutting his eyes. “Please don’t.”

Luhan snorts unattractively. “You’re a shit whisperer Jongin.” Ryeowook shuts off the shower and prances around with the towel over his head rather than around his waist. Jongin, shying away, takes this as a chance to stand up and hurry for his turn. “Jongin, wait.”

“Sorry hyung,” he really is. “I’ll be really quick, I’ll shower really quick and well.”

He isn’t too far away from them when he hears Ryeowook in that sweet voice of his, “Crazy bastards. Do you have to bicker in the _goddamn wash room?_ ” Jongin smiles a little bit fondly, turning a corner. “My balls are getting goose bumps from your glare, Luhan.”

He’s too far to hear what Luhan says next, but he’s just close enough to hear Sehun’s bare laughter. Jongin brushes past the others, cringing inwardly when wet skin slaps against his shoulder. He’s quick to rummage his own bottle of shampoo from his bag before tossing it outside the shower, pulling the curtain shut.

When the water rips through the sweat and icky feeling, he visibly relaxes, sinking in closer to the water. And he stays there for a while, forgetting the ache in his feet

 

♕♕♕

“Where’s Sehunnie?” is the first thing out of Jongin’s mouth. Water drips from the ends of his hair, and the towel wrapped around his shoulders does no justice. Luhan looks up from his phone for a second, before returning to his phone. Jongin squirms, his cheeks flushing as red as the skin on his back. “Did he leave already?”

Something flickers across Luhan’s features, maybe it’s annoyance. “Went off with those annoying corps pansies, he left you a note.” Luhan makes a show of waving a crumpled up sticky note in his hand in Sehun’s memorable handwriting. Jongin’s blanches, _corps pansies._

“They’re my friends, too,” Jongin says meekly, thinking of Minseok and Soojung. Very little people give the time of day to him, and even fewer offer a hand when he falls. “Okay...thank you.” He makes a move to grab his clothes and tug them over his head, but he can feel Luhan’s watchful eye piercing right through the cotton.

Jongin peeks over his collar, hurrying into his pants to save himself the embarrassment. Luhan raises a brow, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Don’t you have anything to say?” Luhan asks, dismissing the reticence that’s stuck between stuffy air and exposed thighs. He takes a few steps closer, hand outreached to lose itself in a mass of wet curls. “Jongin? Sehun said some things, like the cute best friend who _loves you._ ”

Jongin’s face falls, and he shuts his eyes. “It was just an auditory one,” he tries to justify. “I didn’t get hurt. Sehunnie...Sehun was just overwhelmed he just--it’s not so bad! I can practice more, I’m not sick.” Jongin’s voice gets a little bit louder, but it cracks. He doesn’t like it when Luhan is upset with him; he doesn’t like it when anyone is upset with him. Luhan’s careful strokes slow to a stop, and Jongin wants to shy away.

Luhan pulls away, saying nothing.

“Are you mad at me?” asks Jongin, who avoids his gaze. Fully clothed, his hair drips splotches onto his shirt and leaves a stain. “I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry...”

The elder slips a grasp under Jongin’s chin, coaxing him to look up at frozen-over eyes. Luhan is _pretty,_ up close he’s always flawless on the surface with lashes curling in all the right directions. “What do you take me for, huh?” Luhan is shorter, but he still somehow makes everyone—including Jongin—crane their necks to look up at him. “Are you going to keep disregarding me and my concerns and confide only in Sehun?”

“N-no.”

“Why did you lie to your hyung?” Luhan asks but it’s not spoken like a question. It sounds like an interrogation, and there’s a hint of cruel amusement tucked in between his nearly perfect Korean. “Did Sehun tell you to lie to me?”

“I didn’t lie, I just...I didn’t say anything.” Panic etches into his words and Luhan notices, pulling his hand away quickly. “I just didn’t want to burden you anymore. It happens so often you shouldn’t be so--” _responsible for them._

Luhan swoops down and presses a chaste kiss to his hairline, and when he pulls away, his lips are slightly damp with water. Jongin’s heart beats harder yet slower, and he stops wringing his hands. “Do you want new medications?” Luhan asks tiredly. “We could, you know. Sehun can stop bitching at me now. You know he’s a literal asshole when you’re not around?” Jongin bites the side of his cheeks.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks again. “For trying to keep it away from you?” Jongin staggers to his feet, trying to zip up his sweatshirt snugly. Luhan has one earphone in, the other hanging off without a care.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“But you’re not going to practice,” Luhan says flatly. “You’ll end up killing yourself. It’s night and you know that’s even worse.” Jongin burns up, and his throat feels all stuffy. He could protest, he could say _no_ and _please_. Except it’s...it’s just—

Luhan.

“Okay, hyung, okay.” He looks away, wrapping his arms around himself. He watches Luhan leave the shower room with a wave, and a mention of ‘ _getting a smoke outside first’._

Jongin waits a little bit until his footsteps disappear before he allows himself to leave. It’s an unspoken mandatory thing, to stop by the physical therapists. It’s not a bad thing, not really. Jongdae is too nice of a man and Jongin finds a friend behind the thick-rimmed spectacles and terrible jokes. He goes the other way, not wanting to run into Luhan because he has a suspicion he had upset the elder earlier, and Jongin doesn't _dare_ face him.

“Doctor—I mean Jongdae-ssi?” Jongin knocks a few times on his door before sticking his head inside the physio. “I’m here for my time.”

But it’s not Jongdae who is in the room, but the man earlier who was by Jongdae’s side. He blinks, his tie loose and hanging with him cramped in a chair a little bit too small for his height. He stands up immediately, flattening his palms down the sides of his pants. “Ah...Jongdae, I mean, Jongdae-ssi is,” his words tumble over each other, and it’s more noticeable with his voice so deep and rich. “He’s out. Not out, I mean he’s out in the...peeing. Bathroom, I mean.” His cheeks flush slightly when he realizes what he said, and Jongin cracks a small smile.

“Okay, I’ll wait here.” Jongin makes his way to the chair and hugs his bag close to his chest, swinging his legs back and forth. “Chanyeol-ssi, right? It’s very nice to meet you. Jongdae-ssi says you’re our new medic team addition.” Jongin recites the last part of Jongdae’s words.

Chanyeol nods, a tittering smile showing here and there under the anxious look. His ears stick out the most, and Jongin finds a comfort in the stranger’s presence. That’s what doctors do right? Make people feel comfortable. “Yeah I am, and you are Jongin-ssi,” he replies, but there’s a little uplift at the end as if he’s asking; as if he’s confirming. Jongin nods. “Jongdae says you’re one of his favorites here. He says you’re very kind.”

Jongin beams, a warmth filling his chest. “Thank you, Doctor Chanyeol. I don’t...I don’t know your last name, I’m sorry.”

Chanyeol chuckles, but it’s breathy. “Chanyeol will be fine. I’m not really a doctor. Not deserving of that title. Call me anything else, but doctor isn’t so fitting.” Jongin nods apologetically, and the two fall into a somewhat comfortable silence, with one of them tapping their foot against the flooring. It doesn’t matter.

Jongdae strolls in a few solid minutes later, his hair all tousled as it should be on a late night. “Ah, Jongin! Sorry about that, had stuff to take care of. Your ankle being cranky again?” Jongdae shoots Chanyeol a grin. “Did Jongin keep you company?” Jongin opens his mouth to say that he didn’t do much to keep the man comfortable, but Chanyeol nods anyways, his eyes warm.

Jongdae ushers him to the exam table, the latter lying down on the hard material. “It was prodding at me during the second show,” Jongin tells him. “I’m going to feel it later, huh?”

“That depends, are you going to dance again tonight?”

“Luhan-hyung won’t let me.”

Jongdae hums, pulling Jongin’s ankle up a bit and rolling up his cuffs. “This time, I agree with Luhan.” He says wryly. “You looked a little sick earlier, too. Best if you go home and rest and stuff. Is Sehun still here? I know he can whip out that medicine and little doctor act quickly on you.”

Jongin shakes his head. “Sehun went to the market. And I wasn’t sick. I wasn’t.” He leaves it at that, and Jongdae does too.

Chanyeol watches them silently from his seat, his eyes roaming from the way Jongin’s ankles are being pulled at to the easily flexed hands of Jongdae. “Ah, right. Chanyeol, come here.” He does. “Jongin-ah here, his ankles catches up a bit in the front, yes right there. His plies are usually the issue here, unfortunate, really, because they’re in everything he does.”

“Does it hurt?” Chanyeol asks, genuinely curious. His eyes flicker over to Jongin, letting him know he’s addressing him with those warm hues. “An injury?”

Jongin shakes his head. “Not when I’m performing, but when the whole buzz is over, my ankles feel detached after the show. It’s not a injury, not right now. A grumble, really. Which is why I have to see Jongdae a couple times, before and after shows.” Jongdae nods in confirmation, pressing down on his calves and ankles.

“Does it bother you, Jongin-ssi? Outside of the ballet scene.” Chanyeol reaches over to graze his ankles, his skin cool, contrasting with Jongin’s hot temperature. Chanyeol immediately pulls away, shutting his eyes away to the ground. “I’m sorry, I’m overstepping my boundaries.” Jongin shakes his head quickly, his hair bobbing and messing up as he does so.

Jongdae chuckles, pressing his thumbs in between the cranks. “Chanyeol-ah here doesn’t have much of a background on ballet. He’s a curious young man, he’ll spend most of his time here watching until he gets the hang of it.” Chanyeol nods, his ears twitching pink and Jongin looks at them in awe. So pink and pretty. Jongdae lets go of Jongin’s leg and pulls back. “That should have done the muscle good. Better?”

Jongin nods, sitting up. “Thank you, Jongdae-ssi.” He whispers an _excuse me_ to Chanyeol as he heaves himself off the table, slipping into his shoes. “I have to go home now, Lu-hyung is already upset with me.” He pulls his sleeves down over his fists and bunches them up before tugging his bag over his shoulder. “Good night, Jongdae-ssi and Chanyeol-ssi, sleep well!”

“Good night, Jongin.”

Jongdae waves. “Cute kid, huh?” Chanyeol nods, shifting his eyes to the ground. “It’s a shame, honestly, with the whole issue with that bastard.” Chanyeol watches the door close, his curiosity irking him. He doesn’t ask though, doesn’t press. He’s not sure if he holds that right.

Jongin hurries to the front, his bag slamming against his body in a dull annoyance. “Hyung!” he calls out, and it’s so loud in the empty corridor. The others have gone home mostly, except for the few who are slow or the few who are hiding. Luhan rolls his neck and looks up from his phone, eyeing the running boy with his ashy hair all wispy. “Did I keep you long? I hope I didn’t, I really hope I didn’t.”

Luhan slings an arm over Jongin’s shoulders. “Nah, let’s just go.” His breath is so minty, a hint of a pack of gum stuffed in his back pocket. Luhan looks over at Jongin, looking him up and down. “You’re mad at hyung for not letting you stay?” he asks, his breath tickling the former’s ear.

“Sehunnie says to go home, and hyung says to go home.” Jongin shrugs, even if his heart is a little heavy. “Jongdae-ssi says to, too. And I trust all three of you.” He looks for approval from Luhan, but all he gets is a blank look. It’s not uncommon, either.

Jongin avoids the silence by latching his hand onto Luhan, curling his lips like a kitten; the way the hyung likes it. It seems to work, because the papery look crumbles and he looks at Jongin, like _really_ looks at him. “We haven’t had dinner in a while,” he says, nuzzling his head against Luhan’s hair. “You, me, and Sehunnie. Let’s have a family dinner tonight, a really late one.”

Luhan laughs dryly. “A family?”

“Yeah, a family.”

Luhan shrugs him off, but keeps him on his arm. “My food will be poisoned,” he says. “Sehun will probably slip in a few drops of cleaning products in my soup.” Jongin, appalled, stutters. “I’m kidding, Jongin. It’s a joke.” The air is chilled to their aching bones, but they can admire the artificial lights and white noises. Maybe in a different time, all three of them could plop down on those green chairs and eat street food. They could’ve drank the night away with one won’s worth of soju, or maybe rice wine if they’re feeling fancy. Except they really can’t, not when the bags under their eyes are more prominent than the colors from their lips.

They hurry down to the subway, ringing a five minute early wait for it. Jongin hides his face in his sweater, and Luhan seems oblivious to the cold.

“Are you cold, hyung?”

“No.”

Jongin looks around, taking in the all-too familiar dirtied floors and advertisements for those ‘ _massaging spas’_ , which were, according to Sehun, actually a place to sleep with lovers; prostitutes. There’s a figure that stands out the most, in a seemingly comfortable coat but yet too expensive for the scene. His ears are poking out from under his hat, and it’s equally as red as his nose.

Chanyeol, Dr. Chanyeol, he concludes. The poor man seems weighed down by his own bag and his shoulders shaking is enough evidence that he’s cold. Jongin’s heart goes out for the man, and he pulls away from Luhan who barely notices that he’s gone. Careful in his steps, as if approaching a deer in headlights, he pokes his head out from his scarf and smiles up at the man he came to meet only a few hours ago.

“Chanyeol-ssi,” Jongin calls out, the name not yet accustomed to his tongue. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

Chanyeol looks up, his lashes fluttering up as he blinks at Jongin. Color returns to his face along with that soft grin. “Oh, hello. We just saw each other, maybe fifteen minutes ago?” Jongin nods. Chanyeol stands a few inches taller than him, Jongin, who is always acquainted with the aspect of looking down on everything height wise; but Chanyeol stands too tall and too far. “Where are you going from here, Jongin-ssi?”

Jongin shrugs. “You can call me Jongin, I’m younger, right?” Chanyeol nods, looking sheepish. “I’m going home. Yeonhui, I mean.” The other looks surprised.

“Oh, I live in Yeonhui, too.” He brushes his hair out of his face, and Jongin notices a tint of dye. “My sister does, so I do as well.” Luhan seems to have finally noticed, because he’s staring at the two of them with an unreadable expression.

“Oh...” Jongin trails off. “I haven’t seen you yet. And Yeonhui-dong has the same people, no one fresh.” Jongin shuts up immediately, realizing how off he sounds. Turning to a beaten red, he splutters out an apology. “I’m sorry! Not like that, I didn’t mean to sound mean, maybe I just haven’t gotten the chance to see you...or I—,”

Chanyeol’s eyes splits into crescents, the sweet bags under his eyes grins along with him. “Jongdae is right, you are so daisy-like. No, you wouldn’t have seen me in Yeonhui. I haven’t gotten the chance to fully leave the house until today,” he admits. “I hope to change that. It seems pretty, from what my sister tells me.” Chanyeol’s chat fades, and he returns to the polite stance from the company. “I’m sorry, we’re practically strangers and I’m talking to you so informally.”

Jongin doesn’t mind, but he doesn’t get the chance to tell him so when Luhan appears by his side. “You’ll be so distracted you won’t even hear the subway come,” he tells him, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “New friend?” Luhan looks up at Chanyeol, giving one of those fake complimentary smiles he shows the audience on show night.

“He works with Jongdae in the physio,” Jongin informs. “He also lives in Yeonhui. Maybe we can all be friends, we’ll be at the same place, too!” Jongin looks a little excited, even he himself can admit. But it’s true. Aside from the other two whom he lived for nearly a third of his time and the few dancers he can call friends—there has been no new tally mark on the line of friendship.

“Ears,” Luhan murmurs, giving Chanyeol a once-over. The latter looks a tad bit uncomfortable, but he doesn’t say anything. “Ears just like her. You don’t happen to be Yoora’s brother, huh?” Chanyeol looks a little surprised, his eyes a bit wider than before.

“I am,” he says, looking awkward. “You know my sister?”

Luhan gives a noncommittal shrug before pulling away from the two of them, setting his feet in front of the track way. “I know everyone.” He tosses his words back, and it’s loud in the subway station. “I’ll get to know you, too.”

Chanyeol looks a little bit wary. “Is he...”

“Luhan-hyung, he’s a soloist at the theatre,” Jongin says, looking over at his hyung fondly. “He’s amazing.” Chanyeol makes a noise of realization, but it’s blurred out by the subway car. Luhan looks over his shoulder.

“Jongin, let’s go!” he readjusts his bag and hurries over to him, pausing to smile at Chanyeol.

“I hope we’ll be friends,” he says hopefully, just loud enough for both of them to hear. “Yeonhui is meant for long lasting friendships.” Chanyeol trails behind the two of them with a comfortable space between them, and sits down on the seat diagonal from them. Luhan is squished up against Jongin, and he mutters something about the subway cart smelling like ‘ _a fucking brothel’._

 

♕♕♕

Yeonhui is a different scene altogether at night. Morning brings a gallery of indie coffee shops and kimbap stands, the good child when compared to neighboring Hongdae. It’s Jongin’s favorite, mostly in the afternoons where everyone starts to clear out to go clubbing in Hongdae near evening; leaving the elderly or those who can’t be bothered. It’s almost seedy at night here, soju tent beckoning in for a cold drink that is a little bit too watered down for a good drunkard. Luhan loves it.

Jongin looks behind his shoulder too often, catching a glimpse of Chanyeol who is walking a little bit farther away from them. Luhan looks over, too, except he scoffs and trudges ahead. “Why do you keep looking behind you like someone is going to mug one of us?”

Startled, Jongin looks back up, biting his lip. “You said he’s Yoora-noona’s brother?” he asks, keeping his voice down even though he doesn’t have to. The plump men under the bright green tarp do a good job of overpowering their voices with their laughter.

“ _He doesn’t live in Seoul. Busan or Daejeon, I don’t know...I heard he’s crazy.”_

Sehun’s words from earlier in the morning pokes around at the back of his head, and Jongin can’t help but frown. Chanyeol doesn’t seem crazy at all; maybe too polite.

“Sehun said something about Yoora-noona’s brother,” Jongin says, shuffling his feet across the sidewalk. “Those words don’t seem true at all. Not at all.” He says the last part for himself.

Luhan raises an eyebrow. “And what did he say?”

Jongin shakes his head. “Gossip is bad.” When he looks back, Chanyeol is out of sight, the tuft of grayish hair bouncing and disappearing through another street.

The two of them hurry off the main street that harbors all the shops which are nearly all closed, except for the convenience store. “Do you have your keys?” Luhan asks, holding out his hand. Jongin nods and quickly hands them to him, unlocking their home.

Same routine, kick off shoes, throw bag in living room, go for a smoke or go for a nap. Jongin quickly wiggles out of his layered sweaters and dives into the couch, grabbing a fistful of blanket and tossing it over himself with a squeal. Luhan hears him easily from the kitchen. “Already sleeping?” he calls out the question, a hint of amusement tucked in his words. “And you said you wanted to stay after and practice; little liar.”

Jongin curls into the bundle of blankets that are too thin for bed but _just right_ for cuddling. “I’m not sleeping!” he argues, pouting even if the elder can’t see. “I’m cold, hyung, I’m just cold.”

Luhan appears at the doorway with a bottle of water in his clutch. “Well either sleep or tie your new ballet flats.” He motions upstairs. “I bet Sehun is going to drag your ass to bed with a bowl of soup for the rest of the night. You better do it now if you want to.” With that, Luhan disappears up stairs, pulling his bag along with him.

Jongin doesn’t hesitate to do the same. Dragging the blankets that are draped around his shoulders, he hurries up the stairs, careful not to slip. “Hyung, wait for me!” Luhan doesn’t wait, but Jongin doesn’t mind. He catches up to him, right in front of their bedroom door. “Are you going to break in your pointe shoes?” he asks excitedly.

Luhan nods. “Uh huh. I knew you’d ask, _again_.”

Jongin grins, pushing the door open and plopping down on Luhan’s bed. He doesn’t mind, as long as Sehun isn’t home to argue with them; and Luhan’s bed is really soft. “I just really like seeing you break them in. Especially with the only male dancer in the company, you...” he breathes out dreamily. “You’re so lucky.”

“Pointes aren’t lucky,” Luhan deadpans, pulling out the pointes from his bag. He sits down next to Jongin, who grazes his fingers across the satin hem in awe. “They fucking hurt.” The dim lighting in the room makes Jongin feel all warm, the orange hue making their skin seem flawless.

Though cramped, the bedroom is Jongin’s favorite place, with the lengthy bunk beds on one side and Luhan’s bed stretched out on the other. A dresser shared by all three, littered with wrappers and cologne. But it’s home, and it’s so _nice._ Jongin tries to pool some of the blanket into his hyung’s lap, keeping him warm.

Luhan nudges him. “Take out your flats, we can sew our devil shoes together.” _Devil shoes,_ such a funny name). Then let Luhan’s be Lucifer’s heels and Jongin an imp’s. Pulling out a sewing kit, Jongin bends his flats, humming.

“Did you take your meds for tonight?” Luhan asks lightly, knocking the box of his pointe against the wall.

Jongin stiffens a little. “I will, later.”

All Jongin has to do is burn the ribbons and sew them on. Elastics too, they’re mandatory. But Luhan...Luhan’s is so _complex,_ and he watches in silence with the shoe bending and breaking, the box of the shoe lessening to a soft sound. Luhan gets a little bit of water on the bed when he pours a strip over the satin, but it’s his bed anyways, and he doesn’t give a damn.

“How do they feel hyung?” Jongin ask, brushing his fingers across the box. “When you go en pointe?”

Luhan grimaces. “Weird. Men aren’t usually on pointes, but exceptions happen. But they’re kind of awkward.” Jongin nods, but he’s more so looking up at the older man’s face, with a wrinkle between the brows, an indication of concentration on his ballet shoes. Luhan notices, and looks up. “Go work on your shoes, I’m not going to do them for you if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, no,” Jongin shakes his head. “It’s just that...I wish I could...go en pointe, just like you. Just like them.”

Luhan sighs, sounding a little bit exasperated. Jongin flinches at the huff of breath, bracing himself to apologize again. “My Jongin is always so wanting of things,” he says instead, and there’s a flick of the accent again, and Jongin knows it well when it accompanies a darker voice. “En pointes, en this en that. Aren’t you happy with being a corp?” Luhan is so teasing. He knows the answer, he knows nearly all of them.

“I...” Jongin looks down at his flats. The ones that are so bendable, meant for princes in the show; foot holders. But Luhan is—Luhan is king of the shows, in his own right and in his own shoes. “Sorry for the questions, hyung.” Sorry.

Luhan looks over through his messy hair—he doesn’t believe in combs—and grins, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes. He pushes aside his shoes and sewing kit, and climbs on top of Jongin, his lower lip tutting out, glossed. Though smaller in frame, his legs clamp on both sides of Jongin’s waist easily, as if it’s meant for him. And only him.

“You were so _pretty_ during Act 3,” Luhan says through his barely parted lips, creating a whistling effect. “No, wait. _Beautiful._ You stood out to me.”

Jongin, looks away, his breath hitched. “But there were so many of us,” he whispers. “In the same costume...” Luhan hushes him with his fingers, padding across his skin. His bed creaks when Luhan dips down to kiss his cheek. Jongin melts against him, or rather, he curls his hands around Luhan’s wrists, careful not to hurt him. “Hyung...hyung, Sehun says not to—,”

Luhan freezes, and pulls up. “Sehun says not to what?” he asks, his voice slightly irritated.

Jongin reddens. “Sehunnie says I shouldn’t let you kiss me.” Jongin sits up, so that his back meets the walls. He points to his lips, and tugs on it. “Sehun says you shouldn’t kiss me...here. That’s it’s not good.”

Luhan looks a little cold, even under the warm light. “Do you let _Sehunnie_ kiss you there?” He mocks him by mimicking him, tugging on his own bottom lip.

“N-no, he doesn’t kiss me there.” Jongin absentmindedly makes a gesture to his forehead, where Sehun often presses a soft kiss to his hairline. Usually when he’s sad. Usually, when Jongin is supposedly asleep. He curls his legs in, burying them under Luhan’s blankets. “He says you shouldn’t. He says I shouldn’t let you.”

Luhan shrugs, looking away. “Do you want me to?”

“I...”

“Touch you?” Luhan asks with a drawl. “Kiss you there? My _Jonginnie,_ with my kisses?” Jongin bites his lips at loss for words. _I don’t know,_ he wants to say. It feels...feels nice, yes. The way he goes all fuzzy down below, and the kind of sweet words the other mutters in Mandarin, things he can’t understand. It sounds so nice, sharing breaths and intakes. But Jongin _doesn’t know._ “I guess Sehun comes first in terms of...well put advice.” Luhan smiles, but it borders on an iron smirk.

 _You come first,_ Jongin finds himself thinking desperately. _You’re so perfect._ Luhan pulls away, carding a hand through his hair.

“What Sehunnie says, I suppose,” he says airily, with a hint of amusement. “is a King’s word.”

_You’re King. King Oedipus, a tragic man. King, king, king._

“Wait, hyung.” Jongin leans in, nearly falling atop of Luhan. “I...I like your kisses. On my cheek, stomach, thighs, and...and lips. They feel nice and warm. So could you?” His ears twitch and burn with each word, his eyes searching Luhan for any sign, any word.

He looks triumphant.

“Could I what?” he asks, leaning down so his breath stirs Jongin’s hair.

“Kiss me, on the lips.” Jongin looks up at Luhan with a little bit of shyness. No stranger to it. _But please don’t bite._ “Sehunnie won’t know. A secret?”

Luhan gives him a long look, before pulling him close enough so that their noses brush. He smells like bad smoke, and Jongin wonders when had he breathed in between now and before. _He’s so pretty,_ so pretty up close. Jongin unconsciously curls his hands into Luhan’s thighs, wondering why no one else sees the elder’s prettiness. “Well, since you asked.” Luhan leans in a little bit closer, their noses passing so that their winter-hasted lips brush together. “Anything for my Jongin.”

A secret makes it so thrilling.

They would’ve crushed their ballet flats had Jongin not shifted his body mass, curling into the pile of pillows that Luhan loves. Follow his lead, follow his lead; that’s how it always goes. Luhan bends down, pressing dirty kisses to his lips, it’s already exciting—but a _secret_ makes it even better. “Don’t bite...hyung,” his words fall through without much effort. Too late as Luhan’s teeth graze his bottom lip, teasing but aggressive.

“So cute, Jongin, so cute.” This time, Luhan keeps his words in Korean, but Jongin still feels a loss of understanding.

They kiss, but it’s short.

They hear the door open, the familiar sound of the front door knocking against the table because they’re way too close. Luhan pulls away abruptly, muttering some swears that makes Jongin blush. Luhan snorts, knocking his ballet shoes into the box again and heaves himself off. “Ah, and the lovely prince of the manor has arrived, wily Sehun.” There’s a certain bite to his voice as he flattens out his shirt, toying with the creases. “Such royalty, a royal little bastard.” He mutters the last part mainly to himself, and only for himself.

“Oh, Sehunnie’s home!” Jongin loses all the sexual tension with a beam, fixing his little socks and sweater. He flips on the other light, because the yellowish one makes Sehun cranky. “Eggplants, Sehunnie bought eggplants. Eggplant soup!”

“Jongin, wait.” Luhan grabs him by the arm, pulling him in. He forces the latter to look at him, and has him bend a little bit so they’re the same height, or something. A bruising kiss sets itself on Jongin’s right eyelid, lacking the careful touch their earlier kisses had. Jongin winces, but he doesn’t pull away. Kisses on eyelids, they exist in fairy tales—or in a red house in a no-named neighborhood in Seoul. “Take out your contacts before going downstairs, you’ll forget,” he murmurs, and it tickles his skin. “Silly boy.”

Luhan shuts the lights off when he steps downstairs, and Jongin is left in the dark.

 

♕♕♕

His glasses shake a little on the bridge of his nose when he hurries downstairs, his smile a little worn down from the earlier incident. Contacts aren’t fun; they’re something Sehun has to help him take out. A little red-eye, a little irritated. Jongin swings into the kitchen, hurrying over and crouching before a pile of groceries.

“Jongin,” Sehun beams, sorting through the paper bags. “You would’ve loved the lights, or the food. There was this stand that sold gaebul and Minseok ate some. Oh God, you should’ve seen his face. He downed that sesame oil like water after a swallow. I should’ve bought some for you. You like those, right?”

“It’s okay, gaebul should be eaten during Chuseok only.” Jongin nods after saying so, digging through the bag only to meet a pile of potatoes. “It’s winter, though. Are these really fresh?”

Sehun snorts. “Fresher than the supermarket.” He throws aside a bag of carrots. “And gaebul isn’t eaten during Chuseok. That’s your own made up rule.”

“Penis fish?” Luhan appears at the doorway, a cigarette stuck in between his fingers. “I don’t get how you Koreans eat those. It’s like, alive.”

Sehun rolls his eyes, turning away from him. He’s dumping some of the potatoes into a washing bowl, the water splashing down and off them. “You’re a Korean citizen now.” Sehun turns his head to give him a withering look. “No smoking in the house, there are rules as members of this space that—,”

“Correct, I’m a _citizen,_ but I’m Chinese. And,” Luhan breathes out a huff. “ _Sehunnie,_ we made those rules a good six years ago. I followed none of that shit. And it’s not like you did either, kid.” Sehun stiffens, his hands under the faucet. “Like bringing people home.”

Jongin looks between the two with wary eyes. “It’s really late guys. Let’s just eat and relax.”

“It’s eleven.”

Luhan rolls his neck. “It’s late for normal people.” He looks through them with lidded eyes, rubbing his fingers together. “Too bad _ballerinos_ aren’t normal enough.” Without another word, he spins around on his heels and leaves the kitchen.

“We should make side dishes.” Jongin clasps his two hands together, looking at the bag stuffed with eggplants. “Eggplants, eggplant side dishes.”

Sehun raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you ever get tired of that vegetable?” Jongin shakes his head, moving close to Sehun and pulling out a potato. “I already cleaned those. Here, take this set and I’ll cut them after.”

“You must be tired Sehun.” Jongin says, running his hands under the water. “You don’t have to cook today. We can eat ramyun and go to bed. Does that sound okay?”

Sehun’s smile is subtle, his hair falling out of its place when he shrugs. “You know it well, too. If we just eat, dance, and sleep,” he wipes his hands on his jeans. “We don’t really have a life outside of well...ballet.”

“Oh.” Jongin nods, but he’s still frowning. Tired, exhausted, and bones all rattled and sore; but they still all manage to sprawl across the couch and watch reruns of their shows. That’s their life, that’s all.

Sehun nudges Jongin, telling him to look behind with a shush. “Five thousand wons that hyung is going to bitch about his lack of alcohol.” He sneers, and Jongin looks a little sad. “Or upstairs, going through his little cabinet.”

Jongin pushes up his glasses. “Hyung is careful with his alcohol, he’s a good drinker.” Luhan is. The kind of man who giggles over a mouthful of whiskey, whether it be good or bad. A good drinker, he’s a good one.

“His DUI doesn’t lie, Jongin. It doesn’t lie for shit.”

Half of an hour passes, and Sehun only had managed to stuff all the new groceries into their silver fridge, wiping his hands before flipping on the brighter lights. “Go call him, ask if he wants to eat or something.” Jongin nods eagerly, staggering to his feet and hopping to the living room.

“Hyung!” Jongin calls loudly. Luhan is draped across the couch with a lighter on his chest. “We made supper. There’s no kimchi in the soup, so you don’t have to worry.” Luhan looks up groggily, his hair looking like sex hair even if it isn’t. _So beautiful,_ Jongin finds himself thinking, again. _Hyung._ “Eat, Lu-hyung?”

He sits up, and the lighter drops to the carpet flooring. Luhan takes a few strides closer to him, his eyes even more narrow with each step. “I hate, hate the name Lu. It’s Luhan, Jongin. This has to be the fucking billionth time that I told you that Lu sounds like a princess.” He stretches with a low whine. “I’m not a damn princess.”

Jongin chuckles, arms reached out to lock himself onto his hyung. “Sorry, Luhan-hyung. It just sounds so nice.”

Their ‘dining room’ is just a table meant for exactly four; the extra seat if Soojung is avoiding her sister or a friend of any. But it’s nice, because Jongin had managed to find a table cloth for the table size, all blue and yellow in the brightest hues. “Ah, chef Sehun’s soup,” Luhan says loudly, sliding down into a seat. “What an honor from the little heart prince of Yeonhui-dong.”

Sehun’s eye twitches as he sets down the three bowls. “Hope you choke.”

Jongin makes a sound that mimics a plea. “Aren’t you hungry, hyung? Let’s eat. Thank you, Sehun-ah!” The latter shoots him a brotherly smile, though it’s a bit ill-founded, thanks to Luhan. “Don’t forget the napkins.”

They say their thanks—really it’s just him and Sehun saying it, Luhan is popping a bottle top off cheap soju—and grin into their soup. It’s no family dinner, but it’s the closest they’ve got. Even with two of them picking at their meals and wondering where the weight will go.

 

 

♕♕♕

They don’t believe in alarms. No, it’s a matter of either waking up or not.

Sitting up, he's mindful of the low ceilings. Eyes dry and stinging, he looks over to Luhan’s bed which is occupied with a tuft of soft hair. An accidental sigh of relief passes his lips before he collapses back on the pillow. It's much too early; the lack of sleep is a simple affair that he had been apart of for too many years.

 _It’s alone time at least_ , he thinks through the sleepy haze.

Mornings, and those occasional hours of late night isolation are Jongin’s only alone times. Times when Sehun is still snoring, and Luhan isn’t moving out of his bed. Forcing himself to rise, he slips into his slippers without another breath, much less another word.

Brushing his teeth quickly and making sure that when he flushes, he turns the handle the other way so it’s a lot more quiet. Wiggling into a sweatshirt that seems to belong to Sehun, he tries his best to imitate Yixing’s great _ballon,_ but he stumbles a bit in his socks and the rigid carpet.

Jongin hurries to scribble a note on the fridge, ‘ _I’m going for a stroll :)’_ before tying his shoelaces together, his hand on the doorknob when a little voice in the back of his head snarls. His shoulders fall into a slump, before he trudges back to the kitchen. “Yeah, that, too.” Jongin looks around a little begrudgingly. Taking his medications are of the more unpleasant parts of his days, including ice baths for his feet as directed by Jongdae, and the terrible shower heads in the company bathrooms.

Like second nature, Jongin pops one of his meds; the kind for migraines even if he doesn’t have them. But it works, he guesses, to an extent of some sort. Medications aren’t fun at all—they make him feel woozy, not normal. Downing the water quickly, he’s out the front door before anyone else can wake up.

Before moving to Hongdae’s sister district, Jongin had lived in Ichon-dong, or ‘ _little Tokyo’._ He doesn’t really remember it; rarely did he step out of the apartment for fresh air. But this neighborhood is a little different, a bit more like home.

Cafe street is the only thing that attracts the clubbers from the other side. Not the park, not the streets with real houses instead of apartments—cafe street chimes a tune for the hippies, the bloggers and the students. Making a turn, he catches sight of Yoora’s clinic, and a smile splits across his face. Only Park Yoora would dare to set up a health clinic in the middle of cafe street; she had always been one for talks and limelight.

“So pretty,” Jongin murmurs, his footsteps faltering as he nears the clinic. What used to look a little pitiful now looks like the front cover of a medic’s paper. He takes a few steps closer to the place, his lips curling higher when the glint of gold-colored bells catch light. The flowers in the window he saw yesterday are prettier up close, and they look so mesmerizing—

“Ah, Jongin! I just cleaned the windows, your little sweet breath will catch on the glass!” Jongin jumps at the voice, looking up to see Yoora’s rosy cheeks and an equally pink smile. “I’m kidding, oh, don’t look so sad.” She turns to the clinic, and beams. “It looks nice, doesn’t it? He chose the flowers and the color scheme, it’s great, right?”

“He?” Jongin asks, before widening his eyes. “Good morning, noona, but your jacket...”

“Huh?” she asks in confusion, looking down at herself. “My jacket?”

“You’re not wearing one. Noona, you’ll catch a cold with just your sleep wear!”

Yoora laughs and clutches the bottle of Windex in her dainty hands. A bouncy curl hugs her face as she continues to giggle, accidentally spraying the bottle a few times. Jongin eyes her worryingly, wondering what Sehun and Luhan would’ve thought of Yoora had they been here. “It’s so nice out here, though. The little cute snow piles. Jackets make me feel stuffy, Jonginnie, and noona doesn’t like feeling stuffy.”

Jongin’s attempt of a protest is cut short when the door opens with its bells jingling. “Oh my God, Yoora, you are a doctor. You should know better than to be out here without a coat!” Yoora huffs, nearly dropping her cleaning bottle when a jacket is thrown over her shoulders. “Go inside, what are you doing?”

Jongin blinks up at the man. “Chanyeol-ssi?” he asks, his eyes going a little bit larger than usual when he looks up at him. Chanyeol notices him and turns a beet red, his glasses a little crooked on his nose and he doesn’t look as professional as he did last night. “Good...good morning, Chanyeol-ssi.”

“Ah,” Chanyeol clears his throat as he tries to make Yoora zip up her jacket. “Hi Jongin. We run into each other again.” He flashes a quick smile before pushing Yoora slightly to the side. “Sorry, let me get my sister inside. Noona, go, hurry on.”

“Oh, Yoora-noona really is your sister.” Jongin looks in awe as Yoora is ushered into the clinic, and she grumbles as she does so.

Chanyeol laughs, and it sounds so fuzzy against the cold. “Did you think I was lying?”

“I...no! Not like that. I didn’t mean...”

Yoora sticks her head through the door with a huff. Her nose is flushing a dark red from the cold, and Chanyeol looks a little wary. “Chanyeol, hurry up, invite Jongin inside.”

Jongin smiles at the suggestion, but he shakes his head politely. “Thank you, noona, but I should get my coffee.”

“We have coffee in the clinic too!” Yoora says matter-of-factly. “Even tastier than what you’d get at a chain cafe, if I should say so.”” She lets her arm poke through and grabs a fistful of Jongin’s scarf, and Chanyeol gasps as if he would choke. And Jongin thinks he would’ve, too, had he not clasped a hand on his neck to prevent certain death.

He stumbles into the clinic, and Yoora lets go. She wiggles out of the jacket and throws it into one of the waiting room chairs. “Ah, is the clinic not open to public yet?” Jongin asks shyly, looking around the place. It’s a lot different than it had been before; the pale white walls now painted in a soft creme that’s easy on the eyes.

Chanyeol shakes his head, watching his sister go off to the back with a bright and cheerful grace. He looks oddly different from the Chanyeol he saw yesterday; the one with pulled back hair and shiny shoes. This one looks like a coffee shop boy. “Next week, she intends. Of course it’s open should there be sudden injuries, but not really opened. You can tell by her,” Chanyeol’s lip twitches in a threatening grin. “Choice of attire.” Bunny pajamas, and Jongin can’t help but laugh.

“Oh, I see.” Jongin sits down, his scarf in his lap. “I haven’t really introduced myself. I feel really....I feel like I’m disrespecting you.”

Chanyeol looks surprised. “Huh? No, no you’re not.” He sits himself down across from Jongin, his ears sticking out from his uncombed hair. “I’m sorry. I well, I’ve only arrived a few weeks ago and I’m not entirely myself. My sister tells me to chat more but Seoul is so different. Well, not different but—,” he cuts himself short with a nervous smile. “I’m...rambling. I’m sorry.”

Jongin isn’t bothered. Luhan isn’t much of a chatterbox, the elder only sharing a few snide words if any at all. Sehun talks more, but it’s not a lot. Home is silent, home is comfortable. Jongin shakes his head, his hat shaking off a little bit as he does. “Your voice is nice,” he pauses, and turns a little pink. “It’s...deep, it reminds me of the orchestra pit during shows.” He’s lying, but he can’t just say, ‘ _your voice is nice when I hear things too loudly’._ If Chanyeol has anything to say to that, he doesn’t voice it.

Yoora appears with her hair bouncing in a pony tail. “Now, I should’ve just opened up a coffee shop with these!” She sets a tray of three mugs before them. “You won’t ever want to go any other place after drinking this, Jongin.” She pauses, sitting down right next to Chanyeol. “Oh, was my _little_ brother finally talking to someone here? I tried throwing him into one of the clubs in Hongdae and he downright refused me. What kind of young man refuses a club invite?”

Chanyeol shrugs, warming up his hands with his mug. “I’m not that young anymore. I’m twenty-nine, noona.”

“Oh,” Jongin pipes up. “You’re the same age as Luhan-hyung.”

“Luhan-hyung?” Chanyeol asks, and his coffee nearly spills when his sister jumps up. “Christ, noona.”

“My bad,” she says in mock apology. Yoora turns to Jongin, who is too busy blowing at his scorching coffee. “Ah, Luhan? He’s a dancer at the company. And Jongin’s...” she hesitates, for lack of words. “Roommate, of the sort.”

Jongin turns his attention towards them, looking pleased. “You’ve meet Luhan already, Chanyeol-ssi. Hyung was the one who figured out you were noona’s brother last night. He has pretty dark hair and a little bit shorter than me.” He takes a sip before recoiling. Still too hot.

Yoora laughs. “Ah, did I mention that Jonginnie here absolutely _adores_ Luhan?” she shakes her head. “I don’t even see why.”

Chanyeol nudges his sister disapprovingly. He turns his gaze towards Jongin apologetically. “You’ve known noona for a long time, huh? She has no filter.”

Yoora ignores him. “Isn’t today your free day, Jongin?” she asks, dabbing at her lips with a napkin.

Jongin nods. “Yeah, it is.” Mondays were typically their free day; their only time off in the week.

“Any plans?” Yoora presses on, her eyes twinkling. Jongin pauses, pondering for bit. Mondays during the warm seasons meant walking around the streets for hours on ends. Sometimes, visiting Namsan tower should they feel the want of lights and excitement. Mondays in the winter usually came with the urge to just stay home and rest, or get hot pot in that seedy looking restaurant two corners over.

“No,” Jongin finally says, his coffee nearly done. “We just stay home and stretch. And watch television.”

With an eagerness usually exhibited in a five year old—Yoora scrambles to her knees and looks up at Jongin, batting her eyelashes so quickly, it’s a surprise that none get stuck in her eyes. “Jonginnie, do you love noona?” she asks, her voice rather squeaky and oh-too-sweet. “Yoora-noona, do you love noona?”

“Oh my God, noona stop—”

Jongin bites his lip. _Love._ He loves Luhan, and he loves Sehun. He loves Minseok, Soojung, and Yixing, too. Yoora is pretty, and her voice is nice. _I love noona, too, then._ Smiling down at the woman, he nods shyly. “I love noona.” Yoora squeals with excitement, clasping her hands together for what seems to be the fifth time. She stands up and pulls—drags—Chanyeol to his feet.

“My little, little brother here is shy,” she chirps, standing on her tippy toes so she can scuffle up his hair. “Chanyeol here is very, _very_ polite. He just needs a little push. Or a shove, I don’t care. And Jongin! You know Yeonhui like the back of your hand. Do you know Seoul, too?”

“I...” Jongin turns his eyes up, as if looking back into his thoughts. “I think...sort of. A little bit, yeah.” He turns his head to the small window curtained in roses, watching as the earliest birds of their neighbors hurry to get their newspapers. “Why, noona?”

Yoora throws her head back, and her pajamas are all wrinkly. “Chanyeollie is from Busan, did you know that? Busan boy since the age of nineteen—ah, anyways, he isn’t well acquainted with the neighborhood.” Yoora pouts, her eyes widening almost like a cartoon character. “And his big sister is busy handling the legal stuff and orders for the clinic here and you, Jonginnie, you seem to already like Chanyeol!”

Jongin blinks. “Chanyeol-ssi is very nice—,”

“Great,” Yoora laughs prettily, pulling her brother up by the collar forcefully. “Do you mind taking Chanyeol here around Yeonhui for a few hours? Introduce him to the shops, cafes, or Hongdae? He doesn’t club though, but that doesn’t mean he can’t start.”

“Noona!” Chanyeol sounds exasperated. “You can’t force people to do things.” Hanging his head in shame, Chanyeol offers Jongin a look that whispers _sorry._

“No, no,” Jongin quickly reassures the both of them. “I’m usually bored during my free day. I’d be...I’d be happy to show you around, if you’d want my company, I mean.” He adds in the last part quietly, afraid that Chanyeol wouldn’t want to hang around a stranger.

“Really, Yoora, I should help you around here at the clinic.” Chanyeol looks a little overwhelmed, his dress shirt threatening the need of ironing, especially with his sister tugging on it mercilessly. “And I have to meet Jongdae at five.”

“Uh huh, you’ve got hours to spare until five.” Yoora rolls her eyes before letting go, tugging on Jongin’s hand. Her expression is more serious now, brows drawn into a slight furrow. “Will Luhan and Sehun mind? I know how they...”

Jongin smiles, the nervous feeling from earlier vanishes. “Luhan’s playing with a...” _lover._ “Friend, and Sehun needs his sleep.” He looks over to Chanyeol, who looks out of place, even in his sister’s clinic. “It’s just me today.”

“I don’t think I should...”

Yoora narrows her eyes into slits before pinching Chanyeol. “Jongin is one of the sweetest people I know. Don’t write him off.” Jongin looks away in embarrassment, flustered. _Sweet,_ Jongin wonders if that’s the right word for him. “Is that alright with you, Jongin-ah?”

Jongin nods eagerly, hoping Chanyeol won’t feel burdened. “I’d love to show Chanyeol-ssi around.” He looks behind him, at the little door that beckons sick visitors. “I should go home and tell Sehunnie, though. Is...that fine with you?” he looks over at Chanyeol, waiting for an answer.

Chanyeol finally smiles, albeit a small one. “You shouldn’t even have to ask.” He shoots his sister a look. “Really, are you sure, Jongin? Just because my sister asked you doesn’t mean...”

Jongin shakes his head, already tying his scarf around his neck. “Yoora-noona asked, and noona is good,” he says seriously, but his face is bright and cheerful. “My house is down the alley way and up...up that hill. I’ll be quick, Chanyeol-ssi.”

Yoora huffs, and gives Chanyeol a shove. “What are you waiting for? Put on your jacket and follow him!”

Jongin rolls back and forth on his heels, blowing out the cold air that’s visible. It looks like he’s smoking. Chanyeol stumbles out of the clinic in a rush, his glasses a little bit foggy and his scarf poorly wrapped around his neck. Jongin gives a small head bow out of respect. “I hope you’ll love Yeonhui as much as I do,” Jongin says, his voice quiet just in case Chanyeol doesn’t like loud things. “It’s rather homey. I think.”

Chanyeol nods, and clears his throat. “Ah, Jongin? You are very polite but I’m a,” he pauses. “A nobody. You don’t have use formalities with me, I...hyung, is okay. I am older, I think?” he looks a little unsure, scratching his head out of habit. “I’m not trying to make you call me anything, but I don’t want you to feel weird or uncomfortable, especially with you showing me around.”

Jongin hesitates. “You’re not a nobody, you’re our new doctor and neighbor.” He lifts his head though, and relaxes his shoulders.

“I’m not a doctor,” Chanyeol says, his voice light but a bit strained.

“Oh...I’m sorry.” Jongin notices the change in his voice, casting his eyes elsewhere out of apologetic terms. “Chanyeol-ssi, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Chanyeol takes a few steps closer, so that he’s next to Jongin and not too far away. “You didn’t upset me. But we should probably walk a few steps further, my sister is staring at us through the window.”

Jongin laughs, hand out and pulling Chanyeol down the block. His woolly sleeve is itchy against Jongin’s skin, his fingers grazing across the other’s cold skin. He doesn’t realize until they’re past the few coffee shops. He drops Chanyeol’s hand immediately, spitting out an apology. “Oh no, I’m sorry, again! Did I make you uncomfortable? Luhan-hyung says I shouldn’t touch people who I don’t know and I made you uncomfortable, right? I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

Chanyeol looks a little bit incredulous. “You...you didn’t do anything, Jongin.” He tilts his head a bit, bemusement etched into his face. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Jongin squirms against the cold, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I know, I just, well, I have a habit of being touchy with people, hyung says. And Luhan-hyung says that’s not good and I should only be touchy with those who like me and,” Jongin takes a deep breath, and he thinks he can hear Luhan scolding him, though it’s all in his head. “It’s my bad habit.”

For a few minutes, they’re both standing there with the cold snatching up the little body warmth they have. Unsure what to say, Jongin sinks his teeth into his inner cheek, his eyes darting everywhere else but Chanyeol. And maybe a cough or two passes, until someone speaks up. “Jongdae says you’re a little shy,” Chanyeol admits, his voice a little bit warmer. It’s like honey; can’t go stale but a little worn out. “And he says I should try to understand you first before...serving you in the physio. I’m not...I’m not sure what I should do to understand you, so forgive me.” Chanyeol,though tall with a city-boy stature, tumbles over his words, his Korean nearly slung upon a rickety wagon.

Jongin sinks his fingernails into his jeans, letting out an easy but long breath. _You’re okay, Jonginnie, you are fine._ “Did Jongdae-ssi really say that?” he asks, though more to himself.

“Yeah, he says you’re like a,” Chanyeol sneezes, the weather getting to him. “A little brother. I promised to take good care of you when you’re in the medic. And I want to be good member of the physio. Would you mind telling me about yourself? And the other ballet dancers?”

Jongin falters. “I’m not sure if I’m the right person to...well, I’m only friends with a few and I don’t know too much about the others.” It’s true; little secret circles in the dressing room, the kinds that go to lunch together or break each others’ shoes in. Rarely do they mingle, rarely, do they even brush up against each other during a dance.

Chanyeol rubs his hands together, his face a little bit brighter than it was in the clinic. “Then tell me what you know? Over breakfast at one of these cafes? We should, or noona will get upset.” He jerks a thumb back in the general direction of Yoora’s clinic, and Jongin beckons him to take a left.

“I should go tell my friends—Sehun and Luhan-hyung—that I’ll be off.” Jongin avoids the pile of dirty snow, and hopes Chanyeol does too. “I don’t want to worry them.” _I don’t want to upset them._

Chanyeol trails behind him awkwardly, not saying much except for ‘ _oh, watch your step’_ and ‘ _this is a pretty neighborhood’._

“Chanyeol-ssi, do you live with Yoora-noona?” Jongin asks, and his voice is loud in a quiet neighborhood. Chanyeol hurries his steps, trying to match his feet with Jongin.

Chanyeol nods, eyes a little sheepish. “Embarrassing, huh? A twenty-nine year old living with his thirty-two year old sister.” He scrunches up his nose, and Jongin looks at him in awe at the uncanny resemblance to Yoora. “I’m here for a while, I guess. Permanent, is the word actually. I’ll move out when I get the hang of the neighborhood and everything.”

“Oh, I see.” Jongin hums. He points up ahead and turns his head to flash another smile. “I live up there—the red house with the blue mailbox.” They hurry up the little hill and Jongin halts at the steps. “Would you like to come in? I know that we’ve only just met but you’re well,” he looks at where they came from, even if they can’t see the clinic from here. “You’re Yoora-noona’s brother, and I trust Yoora.”

Chanyeol smiles wryly. “Does that make you trust me by default?” he asks jokingly, but rather curious.

“Yes,” Jongin replies seriously, and points to his door. “It’s a little cold, would you like to though? I just need to get some things and say a few words.”

The other one shakes his head, opting to lean against the railing with chipped paint. “I’ll be fine out here, thank you, Jongin.” He pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, massaging the little marks left by the glasses. The younger nods, frowning a little bit.

“What if you get cold?”

Chanyeol makes a face, and he looks a lot younger with his smile lines. “My sister is a registered doctor with a neighborhood clinic, I should be fine.”

Without another word, Jongin hurries into the house, excusing himself.

 

♕♕♕

“Sehunnie!” Jongin throws himself onto Sehun with an _oof,_ wrapping his arms around the boy’s waist. “Good morning!” Sehun grunts, his voice laced with sleep as he stumbles back a bit before grabbing a good hold on Jongin’s shoulders.

“Oh, Jongin-ah.” Sehun braces himself against the kitchen counter, giving Jongin a pat. His hair is sticking out and layered, and he looks a little dazed. He holds up the slightly bent sticky note in his hand and waves it. “I got your note, you’re back already?”

Jongin nods, but then shakes his head quickly. “I’m going to be out for awhile, so you don’t have to set out a bowl for me for breakfast or lunch.” Jongin lets go of Sehun and points at his sweatshirt. “And I borrowed your Daein High School sweatshirt, it’s soft.”

Sehun shrugs. “I hated that school anyways.” He tilts his head in confusion. “Where are you going?”

Jongin beams. “I made a new friend.” He points outside. “I need to hurry so he doesn’t wait long, I just wanted to get my wallet.” He latches a kiss to Sehun’s cheek and throws in another hug.

“Huh—wait!” Sehun grabs a fistful of Jongin’s sleeve when he pulls away. “New friend? Okay...but did you take your...”

“Yeah,” Jongin nods reassuringly. “I took the beta blockers, I’m okay.” He says it, but he’s not so sure.

Sehun sighs, but ruffles up Jongin’s hair. “Okay, call me whenever you need something.” He narrows his eyes, pointing a slim finger up the flight of stairs. “I’m stuck with the fuckhead until tonight.”

Jongin pouts, making his way upstairs. “Don’t say that about hyung,” he says, and it feels like the hundredth time he has said it this week. It probably has been. Skipping up the steps, he makes a left turn to their room. He opens the door by a small creak, afraid to wake up Luhan if he’s still asleep.

And he is; sprawled across the mattress half naked. Jongin looks at the elder fondly, before making small and quiet steps over to the man, and presses a kiss close to his lips. “Bye hyung,” he whispers into his skin, draping the blanket over Luhan’s shoulders so he doesn’t get cold.

Luhan stirs in his sleep, and Jongin slips out before he can wake up.

Jongin hops downstairs with a _thump,_ and waves goodbye to Sehun, who’s too busy trying to stack up his magazines. “Bye, see you later,” he says, and he hurries out the door.

Chanyeol looks over and waves, his cheeks and nose blushing red from the cold. “That was quick,” says Chanyeol, and Jongin stands right next to him. “I hope you weren’t rushed.”

Jongin nods absentmindedly, and tilts his head in Chanyeol’s direction. “Ah, Chanyeol-ssi? Why are you using formalities? I’m a lot younger, nineteen—no, twenty now. I don’t deserve this polite tone.” Jongin laughs a little bit, just to see his breath play a part in the cold air.

A few neighbors are already outside, snatching up their mail and newspapers even if they don’t ever read them. “I don’t know, you just keep calling me Chanyeol-ssi and I feel like,” he makes an exaggerated hand gesture, his eyes going wide before returning to normality. “I should be, like this, I mean.” His hair sticks out of its place, but it doesn’t look bad at all. “I’ve only met you and my sister is just—she thinks I’m a loner.”

“I like friends,” Jongin says, trying to make Chanyeol feel a little bit more comfortable. “And there’s nothing wrong with being alone.”

“I’m not, though.” Chanyeol looks away. “Alone.”

“That’s okay.”

They’re back on cafe street, and Jongin points to the long streak of restaurants and coffee shops. On the other side lays the houses; most of them belonging to said cafes and diners. Minseok always complained the lack of _professionalism_ the street has to offer, but Jongin likes it. Contrast; a little abstract. Cars lined up across the sidewalks, almost threatening to bump a little bit on the cracks.

“Most of the cafes aren’t open to the public until late morning. Around eleven, really.” Jongin says, and Chanyeol looks around for affirmation. He gets it, with the shops all closed and their lights dim. That isn’t to say that there’s no one inside, like Eun-min of _Ellie_ , the motherly woman already seen close to the glass windows, cooking and washing dishes. Jongin waves, but she’s too busy to notice.

“It looks like none of them are open here,” Chanyeol points out, his steps faltering a bit to catch a good look at the two-story buildings.

“Cafe street is only alive in the afternoons. There’s Manufact, but it’s not on this street, it’s really close to...” Jongin trails off, looking over at Chanyeol with a bashful smile, laced with nervousness. “Am I talking too much? I’m sorry.”

Chanyeol shakes his head fervently. “No, no, not at all. You look so, happy? Is that the right word? Yes, happy. You look so happy talking about this neighborhood.” He steps out of the way of the newspaper boy on his bike, who mutters an _excuse me_ in a strained voice. “No wonder my sister insisted on being here.”

“It is nice,” Jongin agrees. “I hope you’ll like it here, too.” They both walk towards the end of the street, shaking a little bit with goosebumps scattered across their skin. Towards the end of the street lies a narrow alleyway, situated between what would’ve been the neighborhood’s ahjusshi’s garden. “We could take the longer way to get to the more open roads, but we can cut through here.” Jongin gestures towards the painfully tight corridors.

Chanyeol blanches. “Can we even fit through there?” he asks, staring pointedly at the space.

Jongin nods. He fixes his scarf, tucking in the loose threads. “We can but...” Jongin buries his face into his scarf, feeling a little bit shyer than he was a few minutes ago. What is he supposed to say? Jongin and Sehun are skinny and all bones, and the latter comes in handy when it comes to cramming into between brick walls to cut a couple streets. “I don’t want you to get hurt, actually, we’ll just go the other way—”

“We should try it.” Chanyeol says, even if he sounds a little bit incredulous. “I mean, the whole squeezing between the walls thing. I’ve never done that before. Or gotten the chance to.”

Jongin blinks, shuffling his feet. “You don’t think that’s weird?” _You don’t think I’m weird?_ Chanyeol shakes his head, and takes off his glasses. He stuffs them into his pocket, and his eyes are just as pretty as they were with the glasses shading them.

“Make sure I don’t scrap my face?” he asks teasingly, and he himself is surprised at how playful he sounds, he looks over at Jongin with a polite smile, but it’s all done and over with.

Jongin looks down at Chanyeol’s hands, which are hanging limply at his sides. “If you want, I can take you through so we’re moving at the same pace.” He points to Chanyeol’s hand, and his face reddens wondering if is weird to offer in the first place. _Don’t be touchy with people you don’t know, don’t be touchy, don’t be touchy._ “We don't have to if you’re bothered by it. I’m sorry.”

“For...what?”

“I don’t know,” Jongin murmurs, but offers his hand anyways. “Yeonhui has too many narrow alleys, this is one of them.” Chanyeol looks hesitantly at Jongin’s upturned hand. But it’s only for a few moments, before he slips his hand through, and they both ignore how much bigger his hand is compared to Jongin, even if the latter’s isn’t so small.

“Well, I hope I’ll get to know all of them.” Chanyeol sucks in his breath and follows Jongin through the alley.

Jongin turns his head ever so slowly, cautious and rigid. “It...it helps if you suck in your chest and tummy. It doesn’t do anything, except it makes you feel a little bit, I don’t know, at ease. Yeah, at ease.” Jongin sucks in his chest, and Chanyeol does the same.

In truth, it had gotten harder over the years to squeeze between these shortcuts. Lanky little fourteen-year-old Jongin ran through these walls with a giggle and no scraps nor bruises on the other side. Sometimes, Jongin wishes he was fourteen again, when twenty-three-year-old Luhan would eye him warily on the other side, shouting something along the lines of ‘ _be careful, kid’._

He misses that.

“Oh my God, I feel like my face is going to rip off.” Chanyeol whines, his breath shaky as they slide against the wall. “Oh my, oh my God.”

“Sorry,” Jongin winces. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” He tugs on Chanyeol’s hand, ushering him to move. “It’s a short alley at least, we’re almost there.”

Chanyeol’s hand turns a bit stiff in Jongin’s hand, and they’ll blame it on the cold. “I’m feeling really guilty for taking up your time, again, squeezing through walls and such—,”

Jongin uses his free hand to push himself out the alleyway, pulling Chanyeol out with a surprised wheeze. They both stumble like drunkards, their hands pulling away just as quick as they came together. “We’ll make it work-related for you then, Chanyeol-ssi.” He pats the dust and grime from his jacket. “I’m sorry, did your clothes get dirty? I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.” Jongin frowns, and looks over at the hem of Chanyeol’s jacket, a streak of an ashy mark blemishing it.

Chanyeol dismisses him quickly. “It’s nothing.” He puts on his glasses again and wrinkles his nose. “Are we still in the district?” Jongin knows what he means, and he can’t help but laugh.

“Uh huh, it’s a lot more cramped here but,” he wraps his arms around himself and breathes out. “It’s cozy.” There’s few places open on this street, most of the closed ones are reserved for the drunkards on gambling night; a stop at a blood sausage place or more soju. Chanyeol makes a face when wind hits, and Jongin looks at him sympathetically. “Well, it’s cozier inside.”

Chanyeol laughs, even if it only lasts a good five seconds.

Jongin points to the diner on the second floor of a two-story building; a massage parlor takes up residence on the first floor.. “This one opens from 6 AM to 5 PM,” Jongin explains, and both of them hurry their footsteps to get out of the cold. “It tastes like a mother’s cooking.”

Chanyeol looks up at the rusty staircase that leads up to the place. “A mother’s cooking, huh?”

Jongin feels like he’s lying, but that’s what Sehun says—and Sehun knows best.

They sit down in the front, because the heater is closest there. Chanyeol looks around, looking a little bit uncomfortable. The chair doesn’t offer much leg room for the giant, but he makes do. “What do you usually eat for breakfast?” Jongin asks, tapping his fingers against the wooden table. “I wasn’t sure what you would be in the mood for.”

Chanyeol shrugs, and takes off his glasses. “Nowadays, since Yoora cooks, I have Korean meals.” He picks at the napkin in the tray, a small quirk of a fond smile shows up. “Back where I was from, there was a lot of, uh, English speaking residents? So more western meals. I just ate those.”

Jongin makes an _ah_ sound. “Would you prefer western meals then?” Jongin asks, feeling a bit guilty. “I should’ve asked—”

“No!” Chanyeol says quickly, before lowering his voice. “I mean, I really miss homemade food. And you said this is like a mother’s cooking? Yeah, I’d like that.”

It’s the shop owner’s niece who hands them the menus, and Jongin thinks he has seen her hang around Luhan before. They order the normal, rice and side dishes. Chanyeol says he’ll eat anything. “You’re working side by side with Jongdae-ssi?” Jongin asks, offering to pour the other some tea. “Full-time?”

Chanyeol shakes his head, tugging on his ear with his eyes brighter than earlier. “Not full time, not yet. I have to spend a few months on internship. But I’d hope to, I like the environment. It’s a different setting from what I’m used to.”

“And what are you used to?” Jongin asks politely, flinching from the teacup when the steam burns his lips.

Chanyeol smiles wryly. “Here and there, bigger places, I guess.” He glances out the window, and there’s finally some life on the street. “At least, I won’t have to memorize as many names, my memory isn’t so good.” The heat is good in the diner, so they both peel off their jackets until they’re left in their sweaters and sweatshirts. “Are you always up this early in the morning?”

It’s eight AM now, but the skies are cloudy. Jongin shrugs, his eyes fitting into half moon crescents. “I love mornings, they’re so nice and inviting. I like doing my stretches in the morning too. I just like doing _everything_ in the morning.”

“Does that include dragging a stranger around the streets?” Chanyeol asks, amused.

Jongin shakes his head, and pours Chanyeol a cup of tea. He can tell the niece was the one who brewed it; the drink more diluted and water than anything. “You’re not a stranger. You’re Yoora’s brother.” The girl comes over with a wobbly tray, and it’s not so hard to see how tired she is. She mutters a few words that seems to consists of ‘ _do you want anything else’_ and ‘ _enjoy’._ Jongin picks up his chopsticks but hesitates, looking up at Chanyeol with big eyes. “Oh, right! You wanted to know about the dancers?”

He looks a little embarrassed, but he nods. “I know some things, Jongdae showed me the files, but I’m not very well, what’s the word—acquainted? With their injuries and such.”

Jongin nods. “I can help you if you’d like, Chanyeol-ssi.” They both go for the tofu at the same time, and their chopsticks clink together until one of them pulls away. “Ah, no, no you can go first.”

Chanyeol shakes his head with a smile. “I’d like for you to call me hyung,” he says, and he pushes the side dish closer to Jongin’s side. The table is small itself, so it is all overwhelming. “It makes me feel mean when you talk so formally to me. Jongdae said it’s just what you’re used to but,” he taps the side of his lips with his chopsticks. It’s the first time Jongin has seen him so playful, even if they’ve only met a day ago. “It’d be nice, if you could call me hyung. Unless you’re not okay with that, then anything is fine, really.”

“Hyung?” Jongin says, the little lift of voice at the end makes it sound like a question. “Chanyeol-hyung.”

“That sounds nicer,” says Chanyeol, who smashes the tofu into his rice, the softness of it crumbling away under the layers of rice. “It’s a lot more informal than the whole Chanyeol-ssi thing.”

“I didn’t want to disrespect you,” says Jongin in an attempt of explanation. They’re the only ones in the diner right now, the girl had popped a green bubble gum and left to watch TV in the back. “I didn’t know where I stood...”

“You stand anywhere you want,” Chanyeol picks up a good clump of rice with his chopsticks. “I’m not that great of a man. You don’t have to think.”

“I think everyone is great,” Jongin says. “Hyung.”

They both smile.

 

♕♕♕

“Yixing has been trying to go for the position of second male _en pointe,_ ” Jongin says, watching Chanyeol scribble it down on a notepad. “The waist injury I mentioned earlier isn’t too much of an issue, but I’m worried for Yixing-hyung. He dances so beautifully but his toes are bruised.” _Some people weren’t meant for going en pointe,_ Luhan had muttered snidely when Yixing fell to his knees during a not-so-secret practice. “You might see a lot of callous.”

Chanyeol nods, dotting the last of Yixing’s notes with a period. “Is the Luhan guy you mentioned earlier the one who goes en pointe?” he asks. His bowl is emptied and rimmed with a bit of soy sauce and sticky rice. “Um, the...” Chanyeol squints at his own messy handwriting. “Soloist?”

Jongin nods eagerly, his smile a bit more pronounced. “Luhan-hyung is the best _en pointe_ ! Don’t tell Soojung that—she’s the one with the sister—but Lu-hyung has the perfect body for going on his toes, it’s just so, _so_ good. He’s so good. Luhan has callouses on his feet too, more than Yixing. He wears socks at home to cover them up.”

“So, I understand you live with Luhan?” Chanyeol asks, pouring both of them their third round of tea.

“Yes,” Jongin takes it gratefully. “And with Sehun-ah, too. We live a street apart from hyung and noona!”

Chanyeol looks a little bit pleased at that. “At least I’ll know one neighbor, then.” When Jongin looks over at his notes, there’s scribbles in English and Hangul, and on some words it looks like he’s almost running out of ink.

“Oh, you know English?” Jongin asks, pointing at the notes.

“Ah...” Chanyeol scratches his head with his pen, looking a bit sheepish. “I studied abroad. So it just comes a little bit, I don’t know, fairly easy to me? I also like the English alphabet, it’s a nice change from Hangul.” Jongin looks in awe at the words, written so quickly but the strokes are so nice; even if they’re a bit messy.

“I’ll go on then,” Jongin says, beaming. It’s been awhile since he’s hung out with someone new, usually when he went for dinner with Soojung or Minseok, they’re keen on gossiping about the primas’ love affairs and scandals. Not, usually something Jongin likes to do. “Ah, Luhan! Lu-hyung, he goes en pointe for a lot of his roles, and he’s always, always graceful on his feet. He has a problem right,” Jongin makes a wide gesture to his rib area. “It sometimes irks him here, after two scenes or three. I’m worry for hyung, but it’s not an injury. It’s just a...a thingy.”

Chanyeol laughs again for what seems to be the fourth time, and it stretches longer and longer each time. “He goes on his toes? So I’m guessing stress fractures and ankle sprains, then.” Jongin nods, even if those words are only vaguely familiar. He just knows that they _hurt,_ hurt so much that Luhan screams at home when his ankle accidentally knocks against their bedroom lamp. “From my little knowledge, men don’t go en pointe often, what’s his story?”

Jongin squirms. It’s not so much a story but a secret, so he doesn’t say much more than he intends to. “He had the grace,” he says, and it sounds so soft. “Beauty and fragility.” He says it, and says it again in his head—even if Luhan is far from being fragile.

“And what about you?” Chanyeol asks, and his voice is just as warm as the furnace. “You’ve given me a lot of notes on just about everyone. But what about you?” He taps his pen against the rim of the napkin holder, and Jongin averts his eyes, turning them towards the stacked up bowls oiled down with left-over grease and kimchi.

“I’m just a nobody.” Jongin replies, rubbing his hands together even if they’re not cold. “I have ankle problems like everyone, I get lightheaded easily.” _Yeah, lightheaded,_ he thinks. It’s a lot easier to blame it on headaches rather than what he has. _Lightheaded, lightheaded, lightheaded._ “I’m with Sehunnie in the coryphée, Sehunnie is a lot more graceful than me. I’m just...” he trails off, and opts to give the elder a smile. “A member of the corps de ballet.”

“I’m sure you’re more than a nobody, Jongin.”

_I’m sure._

Jongin frowns and peers over to look at Chanyeol’s notes again. “What are you writing down, hyung?”

Chanyeol finishes the last of what he was writing, and hands it over to Jongin. “Dancer, ankle problems, graceful, a little grumble in the front. And is a member of the coryphée.” He waits, and leans in a little closer to point at the bottom of the notes. “My neighbor, my sister’s little friend. Lives in a bright red house, and talks to strangers.”

Jongin feels the heat spread across his cheeks like wildfire, even if he has never seen one. “You’re not a stranger,” he says, and it’s maybe the third time he has said it, though the words ring fresher each time. “You’re—”

“—Yoora’s younger brother,” Chanyeol finishes it for him. Jongin shyly hands him back the notepad, and pulls out his wallet. Chanyeol immediately frowns at the site of Jongin’s worn down wallet. “I should pay, really. You didn’t eat much.” He makes a point by gesturing to Jongin’s bowl, which held only a small bit of rice. “Are you sure you’re full?”

Jongin confirms him with a nod. “Don’t worry about me, we danseurs have a different diet.” He pats his stomach and slips two 10,000 wons on the table. “Yeonhui etiquette, I should pay.”

“There’s a specific etiquette?” Chanyeol asks, dumbfounded.

Jongin chuckles, shaking his head. “No, I was joking.” _You lied,_ a little voice robs him of his own silence. _I did,_ he replies to the pesky thing, _it wasn’t a bad thing. It wasn’t a bad thing at all._ Too busy with his own thoughts, he doesn’t see Chanyeol slip his own 10,000 won and sliding Jongin’s 2nd won bill off the table, into his lap. “Hyung! What are you doing?”

“This is the Park Chanyeol etiquette,” he says smoothly, “we pay together, because we ate together.” He says it in a voice that reminds Jongin of a ballet instructor or a teacher, for lack of word. His bottom lip puckered out in a pout and ready to say something, before Chanyeol stands up, and fixes his collar. “It’s already 2 PM, I can’t believe we spent the entire morning in here.”

Jongin blinks. “It’s already afternoon?” he asks, receiving a nod in return. “Oh, I can’t believe we were here for that long.”

“Did the owner mind?” Chanyeol asks, looking a little bit rueful. “We took up a table for so long.” He winces when he moves his hand, clutching it between his fingers. “Carpal tunnel, ouch. The entire time I was writing, too. It’s catching up to me.”

Jongin furrows his brows, leaning over to look at Chanyeol’s hand. “Carpal tunnel? Are you okay? Does it hurt a lot? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said so much for you to write down.” Jongin stuffs his hands into his pocket, staring at Chanyeol’s hand with a deep frown.

He dismisses him quickly. “It flares up from time to time, but I’ve always preferred writing over typing so...” he trails off, biting down on his lower lip. “It doesn’t matter, I feel bad for staying here for so long. We should maybe go?”

Jongin nods, and waves goodbye to the girl who is too busy flipping through a comic book. “Most of these diners welcome people for as long as they like. It’s more busy on the weekends, so they don’t mind.”

When they step outside, it’s a little bit warmer than earlier. Jongin grips onto the railing out of habit, the fear of tripping is always a constant fear. Chanyeol walks behind him, slowly and careful as well. Stepping down, Jongin gets greeted by the ahjummas who are washing down their steps with a hose. “Will noona be mad at me for taking you to eat instead of showing you around?” Jongin asks nervously as they weave through the crowd of schoolgirls who are on their lunch break. “I didn’t even get to show you all around Yeonhui.”

“I don’t think Yoora expected you to,” says Chanyeol, who tightens his scarf. “I think she just wanted to get me out of the clinic. I haven’t been going out as much as she wants me to.”

“How long have you been here already?” Jongin asks, kicking a dirty pile of snow. It’s almost all gone, and Jongin is excited for spring to come.

“Two weeks,” replies Chanyeol. “Don’t look at me like that, I just didn’t know what to do. I’m not a shut in.” He mumbles the last few words like a puppy; he looks like a puppy, too. Jongin’s phone buzzes in his pocket, his hands roaming around until he feels the outline of it.

“Sorry, I have to take this.” Sehun’s name flashes up the screen, dotted with a smiley face and a heart. A smile comes up unconsciously and he slides right to answer. “Sehunnie, hello?” Chanyeol watches him, remembering the notes of, _Oh Sehun, dancer of the coryphée. Tall and is Jongin’s best friend, neck problems._

“Oh, you picked up quickly,” Sehun’s warm voice comes a little distorted through the phone. “You might want to hang around...wherever you are for a little bit longer. Luhan is drunk, again.” There’s ruffling of paper, and the faint sound of the television.

Jongin’s heart falls, and smashes against his ribcage. “Hyung is drinking already?” he asks, his voice a little bit wobbly. “Did you try to stop him?” He knows Chanyeol is eyeing him worryingly, wondering about the phone conversation.

“You know we can’t control the shit he does.”

“Can you make him stop drinking?” Jongin plead, his neck burning up. “He’ll get sick—”

Sehun sighs, and it’s static-like through the phone. “He might chuck something at my head if I do that.” Jongin hears the television volume go up, and it sounds like the food network. “I’m sorry I had to call you, Jonginnie. I didn’t mean to rain on your fun.”

“You...didn’t, you didn’t.” Jongin reassures him. “I’ll be home, okay, Sehunnie?”

“You don’t have to.”

“I love you.” Jongin breathes out. “I’ll be home soon, hyung shouldn’t drink so early.”

With that, he hangs up, and turns to Chanyeol with wide, apologetic eyes. Chanyeol gives him a short wave, a grin poking out from under his scarf. “If I hadn’t known, I thought you would be talking to a girlfriend or something.” Chanyeol says, his voice light and cheerful.

Jongin laughs, and ruffles up his own hair. “That was Sehunnie. I love Sehun,” says Jongin, who huffs out a puff of air. “I’m sorry, but I have to go home now. I’m really sorry I didn’t get to show you around Yeonhui as much.”

Chanyeol shakes his head. “No worries, maybe next time? That is...if you don’t mind? Plus,” he holds up the notepad, with maybe fifteen pages filled out with nearly dried-out ink. “You helped me a lot, I can impress Jongdae with this later.” Jongin beams, and points towards the end of the street.

“I should help you get home, we’ll go the longer way so we won’t get your clothes dirty again.”

“The other way was fun, though.” Chanyeol says teasingly. “I haven’t had so much fun in a while.”

_Me too._

 

♕♕♕

Yoora had fussed over Chanyeol, asking if Jongin had taken him to see the shrine down behind street 08, and Jongin tried to tell her it’s much too cold for that. Chanyeol thanked Jongin in the midst of Yoora squeezing and hugging them both, and Jongin hurried out of the clinic before Yoora tried to make him stay for a check-up.

Jongin is greeted by the hallway lights and loud music when he comes home, and Jongin wiggles out of his jacket and shoes before diving into the living room. “Sehun-ah!” he calls out, tackling the other one and wrapping his arms around him. “Good afternoon!” Sehun had been in the middle of stretching, and the attack sends him falling on his back. The rug acts as a nice catch-me, and Sehun wraps his arms around Jongin as well.

“You already hugged me this morning,” Sehun murmurs. “Could you get off my foot? Jongin, I really can’t feel it. It’s numbing.” Jongin lets out a squeak before releasing Sehun.

“Sorry,” Jongin says. “Should I join you for stretches?”

Sehun shrugs. “If you want, I’m going to take a break for ten.” He stops, and looks all over Jongin’s face. “Did the morning go smoothly?”

Jongin nods. “No bumps,” he says. “I think I was just stressed yesterday...that’s why I had so many so issues early in the day.” Sehun gives a half a smile and pats Jongin on the shoulder. The television is showing off an American show with Korean subtitles, a fancy recipe for a meal they both know Sehun will never make. _Too many calories,_ he’d say. “Where’s hyung?”

Sehun’s sweet face goes sour. “Bitching upstairs. I gave up, you know. Maybe if he takes another drink he’ll pass out for a good sleep.” Though his voice is hard, it’s frayed at the ends so Jongin knows he doesn’t mean it.

“I’m going upstairs.”

Sehun’s eye twitches before he curls his fingers around Jongin’s wrist, tugging him down. “Might I remind you what kind of drunk he is?” he asks, though it’s rhetorical. “We’ve established he’s not the most fun to be around.”

Jongin pulls off his sweatshirt so he’s left in a thin tee. “Lu-hyung might be sad,” he says, and folds the sweatshirt neatly and places it on the couch. “He might be very sad.” Despite Sehun’s protest, he hurries upstairs with socked feet.

Luhan’s favorite place remains at home, at the heart of it rests the bedroom. It’s no secret or shame to see the elder sitting upright on a messy bed, and he reeks of booze. Jongin looks over at their shared bunk beds, only to see his and Sehun’s made and neat, the set of teddy bears Jongin had gotten as a gift from Minseok strewn across the mattress. It’s clear that that is the only piece of innocence in the room.

“Hey, Jonginnie,” Luhan calls out, running his finger across the rim of a bottle of soju. “What goes well with gin?” His hair is disheveled, and his lashes don’t do his red-splotchy skin much good.

Jongin walks over to him in silence, his hands stuffed in his jeans. “Tonic water?” he tries to reply, and it earns a bark of laughter that sounds smoky and burnt.

“Wrong. It pairs up nicely with barely legal girls with questionable morals,” Jongin winces at Luhan’s dry humor. “Or young, cute boys in their twenties. I’d fuck either.” Luhan pats the empty space next to him, and Jongin notices that the other’s sweatpants have a splatter of what seems to be alcohol on them. “Sit with me, Jongin-ah. The bed is cold.”

Jongin rubs his arm up and down, even if he’s not that cold. He sits in front of Luhan instead, on his own bunk bed. Luhan doesn’t protest, because he’s not even looking at him. “Hyung, why are you drinking?” Jongin asks, and his voice cracks a bit. It hurts a little, seeing Luhan drink, even if the latter has done so at least six out of the seven days of the week.

“Bastard I was supposed to meet tonight ditched,” Luhan shrugs in a reply. “It’s never too early to start a beer party. I’m an early birdy.” He mutters some things in Mandarin and tosses the bottle aside, thankfully it’s empty so the bed sheets aren’t dirtied.

Sehun drops in, his sleeves all floppy around the hand area when he sneers. “Look at you, _royal little soloist._ Prince Luhan!” he cries out dramatically, carding his hand through silky hair. He takes a seat next to Jongin, though his voice is sarcastic, his eyes are wary. Sehun throws an arm around Jongin and nearly squishes all of his teddy bears.

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Luhan retorts, drunkenly toying with his own fingers. “It’s king, I’m a fucking king.”

_King._

“You’re scaring Jongin,” Sehun deadpans, and he’s partially right. Jongin stares at his hyung who has a sort of desperate hue to his eyes, under all that tiredness. He just wants to crawl over to Luhan and hug him tightly, ask him if he’s okay.

“No one,” Luhan slurs, and a bit of accent slips through. “Cancels, _cancels_ on Luhan. I am not the subject of that.” Sehun hangs his head and sighs heavily, his eyes sliding over to Jongin in empathy.

“Who canceled on hyung?” Jongin asks in a whisper to Sehun. “Was it a date?”

Sehun shakes his head. “Not a date really. More like a...” he shoots Luhan a quick glance and grimaces. “A fuck buddy.”

Jongin shapes his lips into an _O._ “I don’t...”

“They—I don’t know the gender—is done with the whole fuck-by-night thing. So Luhan- _hyung_ over there is moping,” Sehun raises his voice a bit. “Like a pathetic drunkard in the middle of the day _."_

“Sehun-ah...”

Luhan sits up, and brushes off imaginary dust. He looks awfully young when he’s stripped of all armor, and one could mistake him for a high schooler, had it not been for his heavy eyes and equally burdensome heart. “Look at you, _Sehunnie._ Look at your pretty, pretty words. It’s a shame I don’t really care for what you say,” he mocks him, and Sehun curls in his fingers until his knuckles fade white. Luhan shifts his undivided attention towards Jongin and grins. “Jonginnie, I have a headache. Poor me, get me some aspirin, will you?”

Jongin wastes no time in jumping up and hurrying into the bathroom. The perks of being a ballet dancer means free Advil and bandages, had it not been for those benefits, Jongin is sure they would’ve gone broke. Grabbing the familiar blue and yellow bottle he stumbles with getting a cup of water. When he returns to the room, Sehun is toying with Luhan’s Rubik’s cube, and the latter is too drunk to even care.

“Hyung...” Jongin says quietly. “Please rest, hyung.” Luhan blinks at the painkillers with bleary eyes. Jongin just wants to curl up right next to him and hold him _tight,_ even if he reeks of cheap liquor. But he doesn’t, because he shouldn’t. Minseok says that adults solve their own problems, and Jongin is an adult. Luhan is an adult, but his heart can't help but ache for Luhan.

Luhan takes the bottle and water with a groan, and pops it expertly. “Always can count on you, Jonginnie,” he says with jagged glee. “Always you, my Jongin-ah.”

They watch Luhan down the glass of water like he did with the alcohol, before pushing it towards their table. They don’t say anything, neither of them do. The furnace is acting up again, and Jongin’s arms are feeling like it usually does under Seoul heat. He rubs his side up against Sehun, because he’s always so _cold._ It’s nice, he thinks, being so icy. He doesn’t have to worry about the heater or anything. Sehun is so lucky.

Sehun’s bony elbow digs into Jongin’s hip, but he doesn’t mind. Breaths intertwining, they watch the eldest in the room turn drowsy and his head goes nodding. Luhan struggles a bit in his rest, before his chin is pressed against the pillows and he looks so small. And maybe, they could forget that cabinet of his in the next room.

“Do you think he had feelings for that lover of his?” Jongin asks, his voice barely audible in favor of keeping his hyung asleep. “For him to drink so much?”

Sehun snorts, and Luhan curls in closer to all his blankets. “I wouldn’t use the term _lover_ , but,” Sehun cocks his head, and looks at the man who’ve they lived with for so many years. “I think he likes keeping what is his. And he lost something—or someone.”

The furnace shuts off for the third time today with a screech, and everything goes cold.


	3. Giselle

“Wake up, or I’ll drag you.”

Jongin sits up with heavy eyes. Sehun is in front of him in clothes not meant for sleep, but it’s not like the latter gives a fuck anyways. “Hello, good morning?” he asks, even if a reply is not in order. Sehun just nods and tugs the blanket away, exposing Jongin’s pajamas, dotted in red and yellow. Sehun gives a half-muted smile before ruffling up his already messy hair.

“Shower?” he mouths, and Jongin looks over at Luhan’s bed. Asleep with the snores to prove it. Jongin nods, and lets Sehun drag him off to the showers again, both of them careful not to slip on duffel bags.

They had been successful in lulling Luhan into sleep last night; it only took a bit of tylenol and slipping in a sleeping pill. He had woken up a few hours later, when it was already too dark for him to leave the house without any issues.

Luhan only bothered to stretch with them for a good half hour before calling ‘screw it’ on them and ditching them for a smoke outside. Jongin wonders if he ever gets colds.

“You want to shower first or me?” Sehun asks, running his hand through his hair. “Your choice today, Jonginnie.” It’s still dark outside when Jongin peers through the window, and he just shrugs.

“I’ll shower first then.” He says, and gives Sehun’s hand a squeeze. “We need to go to the store soon, you know. We’re down to our last squeeze of toothpaste.” Sehun wrinkles his nose.

“At that shopping center?” he asks. “That place is so expensive.”

Jongin nods, loosening his sweatpants’ ties. “But Lu-hyung likes the peppermint ones. The one from the States.”

Sehun scoffs. “Freakin’ stuck up,” he mutters. Jongin strips himself clean of his clothes, throwing them into the hamper. “Are those bruises of yours better?” Sehun asks, jerking his chin towards the blue and yellow splotches on Jongin’s knees.

Jongin rubs his knee against his inner thigh self-consciously. “Uh huh, thank you for asking.” Looking down at his thighs, dancer thighs, Yixing calls them, he traces the faint hairs and contours. Bulky and armored with muscle. They’re just what he needs to lift the pretty princesses or fairies of the dance. Jongin frowns, and runs his hand over his inner thigh, going over the muscle. He doesn’t feel graceful. He doesn’t _feel_ —

Fragile.

Sehun curls his long fingers over Jongin’s wrist. “What’s with that sad face?” he asks, and Jongin looks up. “You look like a kicked puppy. Are you alright?”

“Morning blues,” and they settle with that.

It’s all the same, Sehun turning the shower head for his height, and waiting until the water is just right. It’s all the same order, Jongin trying the temperature with his hand, and Sehun sitting back down on the lid of the toilet seat. It’s everything that is bland and ordinary, including Sehun always turning his head towards the shower curtains in the case Jongin screams.

Even getting a little blur of vision or a distortion of any kind isn’t out of the norm. It’s _expected,_ with Sehun’s hand fidgeting at his sides, ready to rip apart the striped curtains and clutch onto his best friend’s hand. When the water beats down on Jongin’s back, hair and neck, he wonders what it takes to break apart from the everyday-cycle.

Maybe it takes new medications or a new set of attitude to accompany a change of wardrobe. Dress better, act better. It would probably change, he thinks, if Sehun stops caring, if Sehun stops being his buddy in the bathroom, dance studio, and in life. Jongin would have more injuries, that’s a given. Jongin would have less of what he has now.

He doesn’t want change.

Jongin clutches onto a fistful of the shower curtain, the rubber and plastic-like feeling squeaks in his grasp. “Hey, Jongin? You okay in there?” Sehun asks, his voice all steamy from the air.

“Oh? Uh huh, I’m fine.” Jongin will keep the norm, then. “I’ll be quick, I won’t use all the hot water.”

“It’s fine, Jongin.”

He hurries anyways.

♕♕♕

They leave the three-man bedroom with toothpaste for lipstick and shirts smelling of strong tobacco. Sehun wastes no time in dousing them both in cologne, leaving Jongin feeling sour. It's no better, because the bottle of scent came from a sketchy store in Incheon, but it helps. They hurry through the halls with their worn out flats on, the fabric helping to dull their footfalls on the floor. The living room is their destination for stretching, despite it reeking like a smoke shop.

Luhan is already there, his head resting against the window sill. They would think him asleep, had it not been for the cigarette glued between his lips. His lashes flutter open, lazy and showing signs of a battle with a hangover. No surprise.

“Is it stretches before coffee today?” he asks tiredly, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, the other plucking the stick out of his mouth.

Jongin nods, giving Luhan a wave. “Always. Good morning, hyung.” He looks over at the cigarette. “Did you sleep well?”

Luhan shrugs. “Did I?” He goes back to puffing out another, and Sehun doesn’t even bother calling him out on it. Sehun nudges Jongin not to talk to Luhan right now, because he’s not in his _right state of mind._ Jongin keeps staring at him, though, in between ankle releases and massaging the little kinks in their muscles.

The morning goes on like that, with Sehun’s feet brushing past Jongin’s thighs when they rotate. If they’re unlucky, he moves a bit too close to his inner thighs, making Jongin burst out in giggles that disrupts the cheap silence they have in the living room. They don’t notice when Luhan drops the cigarette butt out the window and slips into a sitting position next to Jongin. He still smells like booze, and Jongin smiles fondly.

“Did you sleep well, though?” Jongin asks again, when Luhan is busy massaging out his calves. His dark circles are more detailed in the way they bleed all the way down to his cheeks, and his skin is a pasty pale that seems to be lacking some sun. Even if there’s a lack of sun in Seoul overall. Despite all that, Jongin still finds Luhan to be handsome and beautiful, even if drenched in liquor and with the after effects of smoking.

“Luhan is a vampire, Jongin. No sleep,” Sehun says loudly, and adds in as a low mutter, “no eating, either.”

Luhan shuts his eyes irritably. “God damn it, you. It’s fucking six in the morning and you’re louder than a bed whore.” Jongin flinches, even if it’s not directed at him. “And yes, Jongin, I had a good sleep.”

“That’s good hyung.”

“Stop talking now. I just want to stretch.”

They stretch, all three of them. However, they don’t get rid of that sore feeling in their chests.

♕♕♕

“Who are you looking for?” Sehun shouts over his own music. The subway rocks a little bit, or maybe it’s just them. He has one ear bud hanging off the shell of his ear, and it doesn’t take a genius to recognize the song from scene four of _The Black Swan._ “You keep looking over your shoulders, and it’s making me nervous.”

“Sorry,” Jongin says, keeping a hand on his neck to keep himself from doing another look-around. “I’m just...my friend, I thought he’d take the subway.” Luhan isn’t paying them any attention, too busy working out the leftover sores in his neck that he couldn’t get out this morning. The cart is empty for the most part, and he’s looking for no one.

“Friend?” Sehun looks a little amused. “The one you were hanging out with yesterday?”

Jongin shrugs, rubbing his arm with up-and-down motions. “Yeah, hyung.” At that, Luhan looks up from his phone with a raised eyebrow, looking as if he had been called. Jongin flushes and shakes his head. “I-I mean a different hyung, ah, Chanyeol-hyung!”

“Looney clinic woman?” Sehun looks interested. “She’s cute. I heard Lu say that that Chanyeol guy is her brother.” He goes back to tapping the front of his foot to the instrumentals in his ear buds, and Jongin’s heart goes out to that song, because it’s one of his favorites; the orchestra pit nearly tragic and cruel during that scene.

“Yoora-noona, Yoora-noona’s little brother.”

When the cart halts to a stop, Luhan’s hand finds a way to curl itself around Jongin’s wrist. It doesn’t go unnoticed, because Sehun glares and tries to yank Luhan’s hand away. The latter almost _snarls,_ jerking away from Sehun. “Piss off,” Luhan mutters. “I need to have my little morning chat with my sweetheart.”

“You’re so...” Sehun sighs, exasperated.

Jongin leans in closer to Luhan, feeling a bit relieved. He thought the elder had been ignoring him. “Hyung!” he chirps, ignoring the cold around them when they step off onto the platform.

“You call him hyung already?” Luhan asks, his voice all loose-ended and his expression blank. “I’m surprised.”

Jongin doesn’t know what to say—because he’s surprised, too. Luhan’s hand disappears from Jongin’s wrist, and he misses it, just a little bit. The other trudges up ahead, leaving Sehun and Jongin back behind him for a quick smoke. “It’s only eight thirty,” Sehun says warily. “And that’s his sixth smoke.” He nudges Jongin, a forced smile settling between his cracked lips and equally dry skin. “You love him, right? I don’t give...I don’t care. But you love him. You should stop him.”

Jongin’s hands tightens at his side, watching the small hyung walk so slowly in front of him, a smoke in his hand like it’s second nature. “I love him,” Jongin repeats. “That’s why I don’t stop him.”

♕♕♕

The start of a new ballet is always exciting. _Alice in Wonderland_ ’s set gets stored away in the storage room. They won’t see it for another year or two. Jongin doesn’t mind, not really. It’s not his favorite ballet—one of his least, actually.

Sometimes, being reminded of who you are hurts, even if it’s dull. He won’t miss it.

His leg warmers all up to his thighs, the fuzzy bits of it tickling his skin. Soojung had bought them for him for his birthday, and he had worn them all over the house for two days. They’re light blue, and Jongin grins. Running down the hall with his new flats, he passes by the physio.

His heart lurches forward, excited to see his new friend. Rapping his knuckles on the door, he peeks through the crack, hoping to see Jongdae or Chanyeol. “Hello?” he calls out sheepishly, sticking a hand inside to wave at whoever is in there. “It’s me, Jonginnie.”

A deep voice replies to him, and it’s the same one that laughed along with him on the second floor diner. “Oh...Jongin?” Jongin hears a chair creak and then the door swings open, revealing a neat and tidy Chanyeol. “Good morning, are you looking for Jongdae-sunbae?” he questions him, turning his head to see if said Jongdae is around.

“Ah, n-no.” Jongin shakes his head. “I wanted to say good morning.” He rubs his inner thighs together, because the corridor is still cold. Chanyeol looks different, he doesn’t look like hyung. This Chanyeol looks like the one he met by Jongdae’s side, with his hair up and looking serious but soft-spoken. The one that’s Yoora’s little brother seems a bit _different_ from this one. The other one had glasses and smiled.

“Oh I see,” Chanyeol nods, his fingers tapping against the door frame. “Good morning, Jongin. Are you here for any problems? Is it the ankle issue mentioned earlier? I can get Jongdae for you if you’d like.”

Jongin shakes his head again. “No, no check-ups. I don’t do check-ups in the mornings.” He still has the ears, the ones that twitch. “I was wondering if you took the subway, too. I didn’t see you, and noona mentioned to me I should take care of you—,” Jongin flinches. _Take care of you,_ oh, no, no. Bad word choices, he made a bad word choice again. “I mean...”

Chanyeol blinks, surprised. His face turns to that of an uncomfortable one. “Yoora? You don’t have to take care of me,” he reassures Jongin, and he sounds stiff. “It’s alright, you don’t need to go through the trouble. If anything, I should be caring for you. My occupation.” There’s a smile so quick that it reflects the Chanyeol of Yeonhui, that Jongin almost saw.

“Oh...okay.” Jongin nods, red-faced. “Have a...have a good day, Chanyeol-ssi.” And with that, he bows quickly before disappearing down the hall.

He’s out of the corridors before he leans against the wall, feeling a bit light. _I shouldn’t have said that to my elder, I shouldn’t have spoken out of line I shouldn’t have spoken at all at all at all at all_

Placing a hand on his chest, he tries to calm himself. _It’s alright, it’s Yoora’s brother. Yoora is kind, so Chanyeol must be, too. He must be, he must be, he won’t be mad at me._ His brain whirs with its broken cogs and gears, and he swears he feels something crack inside.

The room shrinks. The walls, the pretty oil paintings meant for display warps, and reduces to a tiny speck.

The room is closing down on him, and his breathing hitches. The ceiling paved with fancy lights and coated in a shine threatens to collapse on him, and a laugh nearly bubbles out of his throat, boiling at his lips. “Again,” he calls out weakly, to no one, or to himself. “Again today.”

In a staggering walk, he continues down the hallway even if his brain is saying no. Even if his brain is lying to him. It doesn’t take much, just a few words. “It’s okay, Jongin. Keep walking, keep walking, it’s fine, it’s fine.” And he does, his body chilled as he makes a left that seems so narrowed down. “It’ll be over in a few minutes,” he murmurs to himself. “Luhan-hyung would say to keep calm, keep calm.”

His stomach slaps against his sides and threatens to pool out vomit when he gets to the studio, sweat beads crowning his forehead. His vision fuzzes again, and he wants someone to _hold._ The bright light of the studio allows his brain to stop buzzing, and he plasters an uneasy smile when he pushes past the glass doors.

Soojung he knows, is in the other room with the other girls. He blinks a few more times for good measure, the erratic heartbeat ceasing down to a more regular pace. The studio is wavering, and it feels like the effects of uppers and downers. Jongin can’t help but laugh weakly, the idea of being a constant druggie without drugs.

Sehun is stretching along with Minseok, their backs turned on Jongin and he can hear their laughter and childish banter from all the way over here. Minseok is the first one who notices Jongin’s quiet feet pattering, and turns to him with his almond eyes. “Hey Jongin!” he waves. “I thought you were going to be late.”

“I’m trying to be diligent,” says Jongin, who wipes his sweaty palms on his shirt. The Todd effect is almost over; the lingering bits of the feathery head feeling and the stocky knees. “Joonmyun-ssi is coming by today huh? New castings for _Giselle?_ ” He tries to keep the tiredness out of his voice, and it doesn’t go without notice.

“You okay?” Sehun asks, pressing his flattened palm against Jongin’s forehead. He winces at how cold it is. His voice is careful, but his eyes are urgent, like they’re asking, ‘ _did you have an episode?’_ All Jongin can do is nod, and Sehun takes the answer with a stiff nod. “Maybe you should go to the physio, you’re not feeling well,” he lies smoothly, but Jongin can decode it well. _Don’t dance today, you’re pale as fuck and you look ill._

“I can’t, and I’m fine,” argues Jongin. Minseok slings an arm around Jongin’s neck. “ _Giselle_ casting auditions are today and I want to...I want participate today. Joonmyun-ssi is here.” A low burn sets in the back of his throat, and he doesn’t know why. If he doesn’t get seen by Joonmyun, he’ll just be another dead ballet dancer like last year. The whole dance-until-you-die act is great and Jongin likes it, but it’s so _repetitive._

“It’ll be fine,” Minseok soothes him, mid-stretch. “You have the skills and patience, I’m sure Joonmyun is going to do something about that, right Sehunnie?”

“Uh huh,” Sehun says, loosening up a bit. “Our Jonginnie is great.” Sehun gives him a squeeze on the shoulder, rubbing his fingers into the skin and Jongin melts against his touch, it feels so nice, so cold and so nice.

“I’m so relieved _Wonderland_ is finally over,” Minseok groans. “God, I hope Joonmyun has better judgement to _not_ cast Sooyeon as the primary role again. She bitched on and on about how great she was and made Soojung feel bad. What are your bets for Giselle this year?”

“Not Seulgi, that’s for sure.” Sehun snorts, remembering the incident a few days ago. “Yoona, maybe? She’s usually the one for romantic ballets.”

Jongin sits quietly, adjusting his ballet shoes.

“Nah,” Minseok waves his hand, dismissing it. “Yoona’s scandal last season cost her some good roles. Didn’t she fuck around with someone and blow her chance at _Cinderella_?” Jongin’s stomach clenches, remembering last season. It hadn’t been a pretty season, the tension on a slippery edge with Yoona distancing herself from anyone related to the issue. Luhan had laughed that day, over a drink with a crazy glint in his eye.

“I’m sure whoever it is, they’ll be amazing,” says Jongin. “We have really good dancers, don’t we?” he looks promptly up at Sehun and Minseok, who nods reluctantly.

“It’s too bad, really.” Minseok runs a hand through his hair, newly dyed a week ago to a pretty brown. “Most of us are assholes.”

Jongin barely gets another word in, let alone one more stretch. The studio swings open, the doors creaking as it’s the only sound in the whole room. Joonmyun, in his short but notable stature, comes in with a kind face. There’s something about Joonmyun that makes Jongin feel so peaceful. that Jongin didn’t mind the consequences of what his Todd syndrome would do to him as a ballerino when he signed the ballet contract. Joonmyun was too kind, too genuine for someone like Jongin to just ignore.

Everyone quickly stumbles to their feet in a half-assed bow, but Joonmyun settles them down with a wave of his hand. “No need for unnecessary movement,” he says, adjusting his glasses that hides his eye crinkles. There’s someone behind Joonmyun; a lot taller and just as sweet-faced. “I brought someone to introduce you all to.”

Jongin’s eyes widens when Chanyeol steps forward, his collar poking out of a neat navy sweater, the kind that looks expensive. He gives a bow with his hands stiff by his sides, his legs are so long that he’s still taller than Joonmyun when he bows. “Hello, I am Park Chanyeol, I’ll be working here at the medical wing and I hope to be a good addition to the team when it comes to concerns such as your health.” His voice, deep and chocolatey, rings through the studio.

Sehun makes a low whistle as everyone all murmurs a hello back. “Damn, Yoora’s little brother is everywhere,” he says, looking a little interested. “At work, at home, and isn’t he that guy you called your friend? The one you already call hyung?”

Jongin nods reluctantly. “I guess so.” Chanyeol shifts awkwardly next to Joonmyun, looking over at him for any further announcements.

“I hope you will all treat Chanyeol well,” continues Joonmyun. “We are very lucky to have such a skilled man in the medical field with our company.” At that, Chanyeol reddens at the praise, and Jongin sees a bit of the man he ate breakfast with the other day. And with that, Chanyeol does another quick bow before disappearing out of the studio, following the other girl with big glasses and curly hair.

All the dancers in the studio shift gears, turning their attention back on Joonmyun.

“I know you’re all anticipating the _Giselle_ ballet.” He pauses, and adjusts his cuffs. “I believe news broke out of my version of the ballet?” he asks mockingly, the smile never faltering. The dancers all laugh nervously, and in truth, it did. It didn’t take much to get the information, though. Just a drunken dance instructor on celebration night to spill all her secrets of her failed marriage and Joonmyun’s new rearrangement of the ballet.

He takes a stroll around the room, his steps deliberately slow.

“New parts, role switches. I’m going to make it a complete _mess,_ ” he says, grinning so wide Jongin wonders if the man’s face hurts. “We’ll be Seoul Theatre, the one that destroyed a classical ballet. We’ll be the ballet theatre that turned female roles into male roles, and vice versa. We’ll be brilliant.”

Sehun pales at that.

“Joonmyun-ssi...” someone calls out weakly, their eyes wide as saucers.

Joonmyun spins around on his heels, clasping his hands together and beaming brightly. “Just think, the Wilis as men instead of maidens, their heart broken by a woman in their first life. King of the Wilis, not queen. Switch the gender roles. That’s not to say that Giselle is defaulted to a man’s role for this—I’m looking for brilliance, not gender. I’ll make the story of a death rather than a romance, _truly_ grasp ballet, and take what Gautier intended in the real ballet I believe. Not a romance but a,” he pauses, and looks around at the Studio with incredulous eyes. “Death. Death of a romance, not start of one.”

“Jesus, this guy is really fucking crazy,” Minseok mutters under his breath. Jongin looks over at him with concern, hoping Joonmyun didn’t hear. Jongin keeps tugging at his legwarmers, until the realization hits him. _Luhan-hyung is the only male who can go en pointe._ Jongin throws a hand over Sehun’s knee, looking over at him to see if his best friend realizes, too.

“And that is all I will talk about for today,” Joonmyun says, straightening up. “Please anticipate this new arrangement of two acts, and I will be walking around to see a few people.” The studio remains quiet when he leaves, the double glass doors shutting and he disappears into the hall.

“Crazy,” Sehun mouths, even if Joonmyun is gone. “He’s ruining a classic.”

Jongin shifts, feeling all sticky and uncomfortable. “Plenty of people had done their own spin on classics—”

Minseok gives him a pity look. “But not all men can go en pointe,” he says. tugging at his flats. “Unless Joonmyun changes the dances, there’s not going to be a lot of jumping. This is ridiculous, absolutely stupid.” Jongin, looking crestfallen, turns his head between Minseok and Sehun.

“He’ll do a contemporary,” a male dancer says next to them, with a breezy voice. “You guys are the crazy ones if you think he’ll stick to the classic.” Jongin blinks, his memory reminding him it’s one of the older members of the corps, a twenty-something Jinki.

Sehun makes a face of disdain. “Even worse.”

“It can’t be that bad, Sehunnie!” Jongin tries to look cheerful, even with the people around him grumbling and kicking their feet. “It’ll be a nice experience, contemporary Giselle.”

Minseok buries his face into his palms, and Sehun mimics him. “The theatre is _doomed_.”

♕♕♕

Lunch break always ranges from the late mornings to somewhere around 2 PM. This time, it’s the latter, and Sehun grabs a hold of Jongin’s hands, smiling up at him. “Lunch? You didn’t join us last time.” It’s cold outside, January is always freezing. Jongin, barely dressed with only his foot in one sneaker and the other still in his locker. “We’ll go for kimbap? Triangular ones at the convenience store.”

“Okay,” he agrees, looking around for his sock. “I’ll call hyung and we can go.” Jongin’s face is so bright, Sehun doesn’t even protest to what he said, just bending down to help him tie his shoe.

“I’m worried about you, you know? We live in the same house and work at the same place. But you’re always so...” he tightens the knot of Jongin’s dirty laces. “Involved with Luhan. And I really can’t do anything about it. Even with us living together.”

Jongin hurries his foot into socks and sneakers. He looks down at Sehun, who has a few strands of his hair stuck to his forehead from sweat. They got instructor Eun again, the guy with a few too many years on his back for dancing but his words are somewhat ten years younger. “Involved? What does that mean?”

Sehun visibly struggles with his words, his shoulders hunching up more and his usually plastic face twisting into one of a confused young man. “You’re always so _attached,_ to hyung. Luhan. Even if he’s an asshole and really, I’m sure one of these days he’ll fuck us over—I’m surprised he hasn’t yet, honestly—and just his attitude and... _habits,_ those really, really shitty habits, I’m afraid they’re going to rub off on you.” His cheeks turn a little bruised pink, and Sehun looks a good five years younger with some color to his face.

“Do you think they have?” Jongin asks when Sehun lets go of his shoe, both sides neatly tied. “Hyung is a good person, Sehun-ah. I love hyung, and I’m sure you do, too.”

Sehun doesn’t reply until Jongin has his bag slung over his chest. They usually don’t ever bother changing; lunch is usually just across the streets, but today feels like hell is freezing over, and they’re not ones for muscle cramps when they get back for more dancing. “No, they haven’t.” Sehun’s voice is muffled when he zips up his jacket. “You’re still very much that fourteen-year-old boy I knew.”

Jongin takes it as a compliment, waving to Sehun as he turns the other way in the halls. “I’ll go get hyung, Sehunnie. I’ll be quick, I’ll be really quick.”

Sehun snorts, rather loudly. “I know you will, but that guy is slower than shit.”

Luhan is always around the principals and soloists, even if he doesn’t want to be. Jongin distinguishes him by his features, the dark silky hair with a little tuft at the top when he doesn’t brush it and pointe shoes. He hurries over to his hyung, sneakers squeaking loudly in the quiet room. “Lu-hyung,” he calls out in a whisper, arm outstretched to poke his shoulder. “It’s lunch, would you like to...would you like to eat with me?”

Luhan looks up slowly, sweat matting his bangs against his forehead and his chest moving up and down rapidly. His shirt is plastered to his chest, and he looks so _beautiful._ Jongin crouches down and offers him a water bottle from his bag, using a hand to move Luhan’s bangs away, even if they are sweaty. “Jongin, I’m really not all about eating lunch with your prissy corps friends.” He takes the water bottle graciously though, chugging it down without mercy as some droplets gets on his chin.

“But hyung, I really want to eat with you. Spend some time with you.” Most of the primas are already filing out, chattering with their legwarmers high to their thighs and fuzzy warmers for their arms all bunched up. Luhan nearly finishes all of the water, crushing the plastic bottle in his hand and tossing aside it.

“What will you do for me then?” he asks, pushing Jongin’s hand aside. His breathing gets less shaky, his eyes more focused. “Give me a kiss? Go for a smoke with me? Or will you,” he leans in when there’s not a lot of people left. “Sleep with me?”

Jongin laughs, pressing his face into Luhan’s shoulder. “Your bed is so small. I won’t be able to sleep in it.”Luhan makes a noise that’s somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. He peels away from Luhan, fixing his collar and sleeves with care. “Let’s go eat hyung, you’re worn out.”

“What will you do for me though?” Luhan asks again, standing up on Jongin’s behalf. His voice is lifting and teasing, hot breath brushing past Jongin when he stands up. Jongin gets up along with him, slipping his hand into Luhan’s. It feels so warm, his fingers pressed against his, feeling so nice. “You like touching me? My hands?”

“I do,” Jongin answers quietly, tugging on them gently. “They’re such pretty hands, pretty like Sehun’s.” Jongin remembers commenting on fourteen-year-old Sehun’s graceful, feminine fingers that plucked and glided across the piano. They were so beautiful that Jongin couldn’t help but stare in awe. But now, Sehun’s hands aren’t as dainty and feminine, now etched with veins and callous from all the heavy lifting he does.

Luhan frowns, running his hand over his own yellowish knuckles. “Liar.” He hurries into his sweatshirt, zipping it up. “I hate liars, Jongin.” He lets him pull him along, until he makes a small sound that borders on a whimper. Jongin halts immediately, whipping around to stare at Luhan with wide eyes.

“Hyung, what’s wrong?” Luhan pulls his arm away.

“Nothing,” he says harshly, fixing the strap of his bag on his shoulder and walks in front of Jongin. The studio is empty except for the two of them, their bodies alone in the rather chilly place. “What? You want lunch, right? With Soohee and Minhyuk?”

“Soojung and Minseok,” Jongin murmurs, looking down at Luhan’s shins. A flash of dull purple and blue peeks through his legwarmers. Without warning, he crouches down to tug the material down, exposing a scatter of blurry bruises. “Oh, hyung...Luhan-hyung these are—”

Luhan kicks at his knee, but it’s with so little force Jongin didn’t even feel it. He moves away from the younger, pulling up his legwarmer. “Shut up, they’re just bruises.” He looks a little cold, but Jongin doesn’t mind. “You don’t have to fuss over them.”

“But you’re bruised, and you look like you’re in...” _pain._ “I’ll get you an ice pack, and...and I’ll help you.” Jongin offers to take Luhan’s bag but he moves away, averting his eyes. “Lu-hyung.”

“I got them from dancing,” he says easily. “Bruises from ballet are good, Jongin. They’re my own shiny medals.” He smiles, and it’s so awful. “Don’t make me change my mind about lunch.” Luhan throws on a sweater when they’re in the hallway, which is mostly empty except for the janitor taking a painfully long time sweeping up the corner. Jongin keeps quiet, not wanting to lose Luhan for a meal.

“Are you going to change? It’s really cold outside.”

“I don’t care.”

Sehun is waiting for them at the front along with Soojung and Minseok. Soojung, with her hair in a loose braid, is hanging off Minseok, her face all bright and cheerful against the stark contrast of the dark walls. “Jongin-ah, what took you so long?” she blinks and her lips part generously when she sees the person who Jongin is clinging onto. Jongin thinks she looks like a fish with her mouth opened. “Oh, Luhan-oppa.”

Sehun makes a face of disgust. “ _Oppa?_ Oh my God, Soojung. Stop. Like, right now. Stop.” Soojung pouts and her arms fall off of Minseok’s shoulders. “Look who decided to eat.” He pauses, eyes scanning the oldest one out of them all. “Took you long enough.”

“Sehunnie!” Jongin pales, and Luhan stiffens only by a margin. Soojung and Minseok remain awfully quiet, Soojung with her pink tights peeking out as a secret. “Please don’t fight right here.”

Luhan perks up in a terrible smile, his eyes all dull and his teeth bared like a canine. “You have nothing to worry about Jongin-ah, _my,_ Jongin.” He slings a lazy arm over the taller one, whose ears are bright red from Luhan’s soothing voice. "Jonginnie doesn’t like us fighting, so keep your honey-sickle voice down, sweetheart.”

Sehun’s eye twitches, but one puppy look from Jongin shuts him up. “Okay...uh, we should go eat?” Minseok says, unsure. He points at the convenience store a few blocks down. “I’m sure we all like kimbap, are you okay with that, Luhan?”

Luhan just shrugs, his eyes anywhere else but at them. “Whatever edible.”

“I’m not sure kimbap is _edible_ per say,” Soojung mutters, and Sehun elbows her. “What? The one there is like, all chewy and tough to swallow! And the rice is so, _so_ sticky.” Jongin holds the door for them all, the brisk cold snatching all the warm out of his cheeks.

“Sorry to break it to you Soojung,” Minseok eyes her with one raised brow. “But it’s supposed to be sticky. And you’re just getting the wrong one. Or...”

There’s a glint in Sehun’s eye. “You can’t swallow.”

Soojung narrows her eyes, whipping her head around to look at Jongin. “Did you hear what they said to me, Jongin-ah? They’re being mean to me!” Jongin just smiles sympathetically before turning his attention back to the front, focusing on trying _not_ to bump into strangers on the sidewalk.

Sehun throws his hands up. “I can't help it. My dirty mouth is like having a _SK Wvyerns_ fan for a son. It's apart of me so I got to support him, but it doesn't mean I encourage his views.”

Minseok shakes his head. “Stop indirecting me. You're just upset _Kia Tigers_ beat your team by a landslide.”

“It was unfair.”

“It was 4 to 3! You’re just a sucker for the losing team.”

Luhan rolls his eyes. He's humming to piece of a song from _Romeo and Juliet,_ his lashes fluttering shut a few times. Jongin can see just how veiny his eyelids are when he shuts his eyes, the greenish blue veins branching off into sections. When Jongin looks down at Luhan’s lower half, he notices that he had hurried into sneakers, and didn’t even bother to tie the laces.

They all hurry into the convenience store and take a seat in the corner. Minseok pulls out a chair for Soojung and looks at everyone else. “I’ll get the kimbap for everyone? Sehun you get the drinks, Jongin can get the sweets and Soojung gets the curry packets. And Luhan...” Minseok tilts his head. “You hold fort?”

Luhan just shrugs and stands up. “I’ll get the cigarettes and lottery tickets for,” he does a tease with his fingers, pointing at each one of them until he gets to himself. “Me. Oh, look at that.”

Minseok nods slowly. “Sure, that works too.” Sehun holds in a snide comment by hurrying into the drinks section, and everyone spreads out. Jongin makes a mental list in his head. _Sehunnie likes chocolate and gummies, chocolate and gummies. And Minseok-hyung likes sour things, I’ll get sour things for hyung. Soojung likes things that doesn’t stain her tongue and teeth, and Lu-hyung likes fruity—_ his own thought train is cut off when he bumps into someone obviously shorter than him.

“I’m sorry!” Jongin squeezes his eyes shut for a few good seconds before reopening them. “Oh, hi Jongdae-ssi.” Jongdae looks up at Jongin in surprise, with his round glasses making him look rather bookish.

“Oh, hey Jongin,” Jongdae adjusts his glasses and the packages of sweets in his hands. “Getting lunch here too?” Jongin nods and scratches his arm, looking at the numerous pile of chocolate and candy in the doctor’s arm. “Oh, oh my God, no. These aren’t all for me, I uh. I’m splitting them with Dr. Park and Dr. Lim and Dr. Lim is well...on her, uh, _lady issue?_ ”

“Lady issue,” Jongin repeats, turning his head in confusion. “I...okay. And Dr. Park? Park Chanyeol?” Jongdae nods, and Jongin looks over Jongdae’s shoulder, wondering where the tall man is.

“Oh yeah, thanks for helping Chanyeol with stuff, I heard from him that you helped him a lot. He’s shy, you know? Getting to know the dancers for him would be like an odyssey. Your notes helped him a lot, though.” Jongdae looks pleased, his lips curled up like a kitten and Jongin feels all warm inside.

“I’ll be happy to help Chanyeol-hyung out again,” Jongin says genuinely. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Jongdae raises his brow. “Oh, so it _is true._ You’re already calling him hyung. Hey, when are you going to call me hyung, too, Jongin? I’ve been waiting years _._ ” Jongdae laughs it off so Jongin knows it’s a joke, but he still feels guilty. “Kidding, Jonginnie. I’m kidding, don't look so guilty.”

“Okay.” Jongin looks at the shelves. “I have to get sweets for my friends. Do you know anything that is sweet and yummy but doesn’t stain the teeth and tongue, and doesn’t wipe off lipstick?” Jongdae blinks at the weird request. “It’s for Soojung-ah.”

“Oh, of course. Uh, maybe these?” Jongdae holds one up, with Pororo’s face as the endorser holding a pile of strawberries. “It’s for Dr. Lim, and she likes these.”

“Thank you, Dr. Kim,” Jongin beams, and takes a packet off the hook for himself. “See you later, and have a good lunch!”

“Same to you, I’ll tell Chanyeol-ah you said hi.”

Jongin wastes no time in gathering everyone else’s candies before hurrying to the cash register. He passes by Sehun, who catches him by the forearm. “Hey, I’ll pay for you. You need pomegranate juice?” Sehun shakes a bottle of the red drink, and Jongin makes a face.

“I really don’t like pomegranate juice,” Jongin whines, wrinkling his nose at the bottle.

Sehun frowns and gives him a pitiful pat. “I know, but lately your Todd attacks are really worrying me. They’re a lot more intense these days. You should go to the doctors soon, okay? You’re under a lot of stress and we have to manage that.”

Jongin sighs wearily. “Thank you, Sehun-ah, but we’re in a corner store and I don’t feel up to talking about my problems. At home?”

“Promise?”

“I...I promise.” Sehun grabs the red juice and fizzy soda for the rest, rubbing his arm up against Jongin. “I can pay you know, I’ll pay for your things, too.”

“I’m not usually this gracious, but I make exceptions for you!”

“Thank you, but no thank you. Let me pay.” Jongin pulls out a 10,000 won bill before Sehun can protest. “Put your drinks down too. I’ll get those for us.” Sehun really can’t argue with the cashier already scanning everything. They carry everything back to the tables, where Luhan is spinning a package of cigs still in its plastic wrapping, his eyes narrowed at no one in particular and Soojung looking uncomfortable.

“You’re back,” Soojung sighs in relief, her eyes darting quickly to Luhan and back to Sehun and Jongin like a plea. “I microwaved the curry and rice and made it _extra, extra_ spicy for you, Sehun. Happy?” she slides a plate to him when he sits down next to her, and Jongin to Luhan’s right. “I wasn’t sure what Luhan-oppa likes so...”

Jongin smiles softly. “He likes it only warm, not hot. That’s his only requirement.” Luhan runs a hand through his hair, which is all sticking up and frankly, Jongin is pretty sure everyone knows Luhan doesn’t give a fuck. Luhan sits up, and tosses the cigarette pack aside, resting his face on his palm.

Minseok sits down shortly after with a handful of kimbap. “Eat up guys, we have a good half hour before Siwon is hollering into our phones if we’re, God forbid, two minutes late.” Luhan looks around the plastic table before scoffing and taking his own kimbap.

“Bon appetit,” he says easily, before peeling away at the wrappings. Jongin looks over at Luhan for what is probably the twentieth time since he has been here. Luhan rarely eats out with them, maybe a good once a month sort of deal. Maybe it’s because Luhan doesn’t like Jongin’s friends, or Minseok is ten times quieter around the man.

“Soooo,” Soojung drawls, blinking rapidly with her pretty manicured nails tapping against the table. “Did you hear of the Giselle arrangements?” she asks in a sweet voice, and Sehun does his best not to to choke. “You know, Luhan-oppa, with the gender swaps?”

“Yes,” Luhan mutters, tearing at the seaweed wrapping. “I have ears, Sooyeon.”

Soojung bristles “That’s my sister.”

“My bad.”

“Let’s not be an asshole,” Sehun says, narrowing his eyes at him. “Your jokes aren’t particularly _funny._ ” Minseok coughs into his arm awkwardly, stuffing a mouthful of curry into his mouth to avoid conversation. Luhan winks, and pushes his head down on Jongin’s shoulder, and everyone shuts up.

“Ah, hyung,” Jongin clears his throat. “I think the chances are high for you to be Giselle. Since you’re en pointe already, and you’re amazing.” Luhan hums, and Minseok continues chewing on his curry. “I hope you get the part, you deserve it.”

“I will,” Luhan says, his voice sounding like summer buzz. “I’ll make sure I do.” He pushes aside the kimbap and tears open the bag of sweets, popping one in his mouth. Soojung bites down on her lip and turns to Sehun to rave about corps gossip, whereas Minseok is concentrating intently on a mobile game. It’s just him and Luhan, and Jongin doesn’t mind so much.

“You’re tired,” Jongin says it like a statement. “How was class today hyung?”

“Annoying, really annoying.” Luhan pops a few more sweets into his mouth, and his hair tickles the side of Jongin’s face. “Cramps, bruises, bothersome people I have to smile at.” He slips a hand onto Jongin’s thigh where Sehun can’t see or when Sehun isn’t looking), or can’t do anything about it. Luhan’s pale and artistic hand rests on his upper thigh and Jongin breathes out happily, the warmth of his hyung’s touch like honey. “You know why I like you, right Jongin?”

“Not really,” he admits quietly, the others too involved in conversation to hear what they’re talking about. “I’m so burdensome.” _I am so mentally wrong,_ he wants to say, wants to cry. But it is not the right time or place. It never is.

“Because you’re so good,” Luhan continues, as if Jongin has never spoken. “You do everything I want and _like._ You don’t beg for smiles or compliments. I _like you_.” Luhan sits up and pops the rest of the sweets in his mouth, crumpling up the bag and tossing it aside. He reaches for his cigarettes and rubs a thumb over the pack, smiling a bit too fondly at it.

Jongin opens his mouth to say something, when Soojung reaches over to tap his shoulder. “Hey, Jongin. You haven’t touched your meal. Do you not like my cooking?” she sticks out her lower lip in a cute pout.

Minseok makes an incredulous noise. “What cooking? You literally shoved a packet of instant curry and rice into a microwave—ow!” his cry rings through the store like a bell. Sehun buries his face into his hands with a groan, his fingers etching through his hair.

“You all are so embarrassing.” Luhan says with amusement, raising a brow at Soojung. “Better than your sister, however.”

Soojung’s eyes widens comically, her curls of hair bouncing when she sits up and leans in closer to Luhan, who, by reflex leans away. Jongin takes a spoonful of curry in order to please Soojung, even if it tastes like shit. “Sooyeon-ah is horrible, right? See, I’m so glad Luhan-oppa agrees. It’s fortunate to have someone of _good_ taste know that she’s an absolute wound.” Soojung’s eye twitches as she trails off talking to herself, her long nails almost scratching Minseok’s skin when she raises her hand. “God damn if murder wasn’t illegal.”

“Or unorthodox,” Minseok says snidely. “Stop talking about homicide, Soojung. It doesn’t suit your pretty face.”

Luhan shrugs and twirls his lighter in his hand. Jongin had bought it for him for Christmas even if none of them truly celebrates it religiously. It’s just nice, Jongin thinks, to give gifts to someone. “Unorthodox is overrated,” he says with laughter lining his voice. “Cheers, Soojung. Cheers.” He ruffles up Jongin’s hair and his ring rubs against his scalp. “Going for a smoke. Don’t wait up, I’m leaving anyways.”

And he does, kicking aside his chair with a ‘ _ttch.’_ They all watch him stroll outside, brave and fearless against the January cold. “Luhan is really something,” Minseok says in observation, watching him rip through the carton of cancer sticks expertly. “Points for being an interesting character, at least.”

“Minus points for being a complete douche bag,” Sehun fires back, before Jongin calms him down with his can of soda. “Shouldn’t we be eating healthily? I don’t know, for lead preparations...?” he looks pointedly at the torn up pieces of gummies on the table. “Our nutritionist will give us an ear fuck if they see this.”

“By the way,” Soojung swallows a burp. “Who is our nutritionist now?”

Jongin perks up. “Dr. Park Chanyeol!” he informs excitedly. “Except he doesn’t like to be called Doctor. He’s really tall and looks like Yoora-noona. Do you know that pretty girl you met when you were sick last year, yes? He looks like her, except masculine and tall and has turtle eyes!” he pushes up some flesh under his eyes. “Turtle eyes, he’s very handsome.”

Sehun blinks. “Wow. Okay.” He shakes his head. “I just asked for his name.”

Minseok barks a laughter, and at this point the cashier is most likely staring daggers at them. “Whoa, Jongin. You speak so highly of our nutritionist. How come you already know Dr. Nutritionist before we do, huh, huh?” Minseok pokes at his arm with a grin, his almond eyes slanting up in pair with his smile.

“Jongin ditched me on our day off to go hang out with _said Nutritionist._ Hey you know, he was the guy that Joonmyun-ah introduced us to. Don’t know him. But if our Jongin likes this Park Chanyeol, then so be it! Park Chanyeol must be a good guy then.” Sehun raises his can of fizzy drink in the air like a glass of champagne. “To Park Chanyeol, whoever he is!”

“You’ll like him,” Jongin says, confirming all their thoughts. “He’s Luhan-hyung’s age, twenty-nine.”

“Is he taller than you?” Soojung asks through a mouthful of gummy bears.

“A lot taller than me,” Jongin says, thinking back to it.

“I think we have something else to cheer for,” Minseok says seriously, tearing into his kimbap like it’s a treasure. “Goodbye 11 PM subway rides, hello 8 PM station! Bless these next few weeks.” Jongin laughs, and the rest join in.

They cheer, and Jongin’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Sehun video edit by [@kaisces](https://www.instagram.com/kaisces/?hl=en) ^^
>
>> [A video posted by hyo (@kaisces)](https://www.instagram.com/p/BIAqsVIgGPR/) on Jul 18, 2016 at 10:00am PDT


	4. Love Bites

“Arms! I want them high in the sky—what are you doing? What is this, are you struggling?” Instructor Eun does a phony pout at a poor nineteen-year-old girl, a new addition to the fresh ranks of the corps a good two months ago. “How will you play a role in _Giselle_ if you cannot even keep those arms over your head?”

Jongin watches her face fall before he shoots a _you-can-do-it_ look. It’s all practice, it seems like. Practice, practice, and practice until their bones ache and their muscles burn. Tomorrow or the day after is when Joonmyun makes a mark. At least, that’s what Ryeowook predicts, and Ryeowook is _always_ right.

Jongin throws a quick glance over at the clock perched on the wall. _5 PM,_ and without realization, he sighs in relief. Three hours left, three hours until he can go home and practice on his own. It’s silly, really. He’s already practicing here, right now with beautiful people, but he’s not alone. He _wants_ to be alone.

“Switch! Fifth position en bas,” Eun flares out his arms dramatically, tilting his head up like a broken swan. “Grace, grace, grace! Show me your transition, yes that.” Eun looks at them with disdain, his hair in an unfashionable headband as he takes a step back. “You are the _body_ of the ballet—be as whole as you can be, you over there.” Distracted, he marches over to a young boy who recently got transferred from Thailand. “Your arms are too high now!”

“Why do we get the fuckhead for an instructor today?” Sehun mutters under his breath, bending his knees in sync with Jongin.

“Because instructor Lee is out sick with a cold,” Jongin says unhelpfully, mimicking the two-step-back repeat scheme with Minseok by his side.

“Or out with a hangover,” says Minseok. “I’m telling you, this company has some hard drinkers and stoners.” Soojung throws them a look from across the room as she is paired up with another girl with bony wrists. “Break is in ten minutes, stay with me, guys.”

“I want to die right now,” Sehun says between his teeth, wincing when he rotates his waist. Jongin reaches out to grab him, but his hand drops when Eun looks over his shoulder. “I’m fine, just a little rusty from all of these waist practices.”

“Go to the physio,” Minseok says in between his steps. “Is it bad?”

“It’s the same old.”

Jongin, feeling helpless, just stares at Sehun. “I’ll take you, I have a bit of a whine in my ankles too. Hyung? What about you, are you pain-free?”

Minseok lowers his voice to a whisper. “Not pain-free, but I walk.”

Jongin settles down against the barres. A few more minutes, a few more _long, long_ minutes. The time in between ballet week is boring. Uneventful, everything dull and drab with a lot more pain. They’re all kissing the barres instead of kissing the stage, that is, until everything is in order for more pain and rehearsals. His throat is parched and all rough at the edges, and he looks at his water bottle mournfully. _A few more minutes._

“Don’t lose power just yet!” Eun shouts out in a sing-song voice that reminds Jongin of a broken music box. “A few minutes is a few minutes but you can squeeze in another spin. I’m looking at you ladies. And men, work your honey muscles with strength!”

_Honey muscles?_

“I’ll work my honey muscles into your fucking balls you sleazy unrealistic little—,” Sehun goes off into a swearing roll under his breath, and all Jongin can do is push back the soaked bangs out of his face and shut his eyes. He starts to see blurs of low lights under his eyelids, feeling rather numb on his limbs as he tries to pull out another arm movement.

Instructor Eun’s watch beeps with a unison of groans, and all the dancers in the room collapse almost by the rows. “What a _shame,_ this new generation of ballet dancers. In the 1990’s, we all danced in the freezing cold, and some days without any lights! This theatre was so Goddamn poor it was even tragic. You lucky young ones get heat and paid ballet shoes but cannot even put out half the effort I had!” Eun continues spitting out his rant, making pointed and dramatic hand motions with each spitting word.

Minseok stands up with a wince, grabbing his nearly empty water bottle. “Eun talks a whole lot of shit for someone who was a corp from nineteen to thirty-nine. And his retirement cause? Dumbass broke his fractured his toes tripping down a stage.” He rubs his face into a towel that Jongin hands him, his face flushed pink and red and all colors warm. “I’m not going to be a corp forever, I’m going to move up.”

Sehun playfully punches him. “I’m with you.” Sehun pinches Jongin’s cheeks and Jongin feels his face heat up. “You, me, and Minseok. We’re going to be soloists before we break our bones. We’re going to make it big.” He throws his empty water bottle into the recycling bin in the dusty corner. “We’ll kiss the corps goodbye and voila, we’ll be the real stars.”

“I’m happy where I am but,” he leans into Sehun’s sweaty shoulder, and it’s awkward when they walk but they don’t pull away. “I’ll be happier if that happens.”

“It will happen. Believe me, it’s going to.”

Minseok parts way with them, muttering something about needing some cold air. “Here, let’s go see Jongdae-ssi, he’ll fix that ankle of yours.” Sehun chuckles, the two of them shuffling in their flats in the cold hall. They open the door to the physio, two out of the four beds already occupied by dancers, most on their sides and the one on her stomach as Dr. Lim rushes back and forth to massage them.

Jongin waves to her. “You look pretty today, Dr. Lim,” he says, and she brightens.

“Oh, you two are here. I’ll get Jongdae for you.”

Jongin appears between the curtains, his glasses pulled back to hold back the pieces of hair falling onto his forehead. He claps his hands together and pats the two empty beds. “Waist acting up again?” Sehun nods, hobbling over to the bed. “You too, Jongin?”

“It’s my ankles,” he admits. “Eun-ssi got us working plies and you know those aren’t fun for my ankles...” Jongdae makes an _ah_ sound.

“You’re dehydrated. Chanyeol-ah, can you get two bottles of water from the fridge?” Jongin pulls himself onto the bed, and the paper underneath him crinkles in a familiar tune.

_Chanyeol is here?_

Chanyeol answers in a deep voice. “Alright, I got them. Oh, hello Jongin.” He smiles softly, the corners of his lips soft when it quirks up on both ends. “For you,” he says with a soft smile, pressing a chilled bottle into Jongin’s hand.

“Thank you,” he whispers, though he doesn't have to. Chanyeol nods and turns away.

“Hey, Chanyeol. How good is your memory?” Jongdae asks, motioning Sehun to lay down on his side.

Chanyeol takes a moment to think. “Pretty good, I’d say.” Even though his back is facing him, Jongin scrunches up his face in confusion. _But I thought you said your memory was poor,_ he can’t help but think. “Why, what should I do?”

“Remember the grumble in Jongin’s ankles? Do you remember how I handled them? I’d like you to try for me. See if you can work out that ache.” Dr. Lim shoots Jongdae an uneven glance. “Oh, don’t worry Limmie, you know Chanyeol and his background. The man is talented.”

“You flatter me,” Chanyeol says, but looks over at Jongin. “Are you...okay with that? If you’re not comfortable with me doing it for you then by all means—”

“It’s okay,” Jongin reassures. “I trust you.”

“That’s not so good.”

“That’s okay.”

Chanyeol looks at him with dubious, big eyes, but he says nothing more. Wordlessly, he takes one of Jongin’s legs and tugs off the warmer. He pauses, grazing his calloused but soft fingers across Jongin’s shin. “So many bruises,” he murmurs, concern scratched deep in his throat and showing in his words. “Are you okay? You look like you got even a lot more than last time Jongdae looked at you.”

“Dancers,” Jongin says uneasily with a hiccup. He covers his mouth hastily. “We get bruises easily, it’s nothing.” _It’s normal it’s normal, it’s normal._ “It’s normal.”

“Chanyeol nods in understanding and points at his flats. “Can I take these off?” Jongin nods. Chanyeol’s hands are so light and careful. They’re not delicate and pale like Sehun’s and Soojung’s, but stubby with veins carved into the skin. Worker’s hands; doctor’s hands. Feeling ticklish, he bites down on his lip to keep himself from laughing.

“You feel something weird here?” Chanyeol asks, adjusting his glasses while pointing at the area between his shin and foot. Working his fingers into the skin, Jongin feels the dull pain being torn away, piece by piece. It feels so nice, Chanyeol’s fingers pressing into the sore spot and carefully avoiding bruises, not wanting to wake them up. “I was in cardiology, so forgive me if I’m not doing it right.”

Jongin shakes his head. “You’re doing really well, it’s almost as good as Jongdae-ssi’s.” He sits in mostly silence as Chanyeol tries to work his way around the bruises, sometimes pausing for clarifications if this is where is hurts, or where it’s being a bother.

After a good five minutes, Jongin taps on Chanyeol’s shoulder. “Huh?”

“It’s all better now, thank you,” Jongin says, sitting up, bringing his knees up to his chest. “You’re a fast learner, hyung.” _Hyung._ Chanyeol looks visibly surprised, but it only lasts a mere second to the point where it doesn’t count.

“See, look Chanyeol already picking up on the job.” Jongdae beams like a proud father. “Hey, Sehun, the whine in your waist going away yet?”

Sehun lets out a low groan, burying his face into the bed. “I’m so tired, I want to sleep here.” He tugs on Jongdae’s sleeve. “Hey, hyung, let me sleep here, huh? Just for a bit?”

Chanyeol looks over at Jongin, who is busy trying to fit into his slippers again. “Is that your Sehun? The one who lives with you?”

“Uh huh, he’s so good-looking, isn’t he?” Chanyeol furrows his brows at that, amused.

“I suppose he is.”

“I envy him,” Jongin admits, quietly so that his voice cracks and Chanyeol has to lean in to hear a portion of it. “He’s so beautiful. I’m sure he’ll get _King_ of the Wilis this ballet, he’s so amazing.” To him, Sehun had always been a prince. Skinned and boned down to perfection from their early teenage years to the booming years of the twenties that promises more ache and sweat. Prince Sehun, gorgeous and everything Jongin wants to be.  _Normal._

“Are you saying you’re not beautiful?” Chanyeol asks cautiously, his arms crossed. “Because I’d like to disagree.” Chanyeol’s hair is up and styled like one of those models in Sehun’s fashion magazines. Jongin wonders whether he likes it down or up.

To that, Jongin doesn’t say anything.

♕♕♕

8 PM doesn't appear with a heavy chime on the grandfather’s clock because they don’t have one. Sores are tattooed into their backs from lifting three girls in the same hour, no matter how light they are. Jongin sighs, pulling his hair back. He just wants to go home and rest for a good half hour before practicing. Not doing three shows during prep weeks feels weird, but he’s also glad. No rush, no pain.

Ryeowook waltzes out of the shower room with a towel hung over his lanky shoulders, lips glossed with a rosy tint. “Wouldn’t use the showers if I were you. They're all occupied anyways.” He gives the younger one a pat on the shoulder, his cheeks are perky and dewy. “You’re better off getting one at home, anyways. Less hassle and fewer pruny dicks to see.”

Sehun shrugs and doesn’t do anything to cover his upcoming yawn. “Fine with me. I just want to get home right now.” His face is covered with his hoodie, and his shoulders are hunched like a baby. “I’ll take dancing three ballets a night over Eun’s class, that old man goes hard.” Jongin follows him, even if he is a little bit uncomfortable with how sweaty and smelly he is, and all he wants to do is shower.

They’re nearly outside when Jongin’s phone buzzes in his bag.

 

8:02 시간

 **Lu** : I'm going out. Don’t wait for me.

 **Lu** : I mean it.

 

“Hyung is going out,” Jongin says, staring at his phone screen. “It’ll just be you and me again.”

Sehun zips up all the way to his neck. “It always has been.”

Seoul is pretty at night, with its artificial lights plastered across buildings, rushing cars and taxis. They hurry by students in uniforms and couples with their hands intertwined, and it looks like a scene straight of a drama. Stepping out of the building is like stepping out of a cage; the orchestra music and ballet shoes replaced with drunken men and women calling for a designated driver and high heels that could put a good seven inches on someone’s height.

It’s a shame that he’s under Seoul more than he is in it.

Plopping down on an empty bench, Sehun flutters his eyes shut. “I’m just so tired,” he says weakly, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m going to get alcohol, and I’m going to fall dead asleep. That’s my master plan.” Jongin scoots in closer to Sehun.

“You can sleep on the subway, a little power nap,” suggests Jongin. “I’ll wake you up when we get home, okay?”

“Thanks Jonginnie.” His voice is already drowsy, and it’s twice as deep when so. He loses the lisp even, and it’s so cute. “I can always count on you.” The subway screeches to a halt a few minutes later, and Jongin offers his shoulder to Sehun and an arm around his waist.

“Let’s go Sehun, watch your step.” Jongin’s voice is strained with two heavy duffel bags on one shoulder, but it’s all worth it to see the sleepy smile on Sehun’s face. “Now take a nap. You deserve it.”

“I...deserve it...”

They plop down on the plastic seats with a sigh. A few people shuffle in, most of them teenagers with their hands full of bags. Someone sits next to him, and Jongin moves over a little to make room for the person.

“No it’s fine, I have enough room,” Chanyeol reassures him, clutching onto his bag against his chest. “Don’t squish yourself.”

“Hello hyung,” Jongin says, blinking at him. “I thought you didn’t take the subway.”

“Huh? Why wouldn’t I?” Chanyeol asks, tilting his head.

Jongin makes an _oh_ with his mouth and looks down at his feet. Sneakers, not ballet shoes. “Well, I didn’t see you this morning, I thought you drove to the theatre. I would’ve waited for you otherwise...”

For a moment, Chanyeol looks incredulous. “You’re...really sweet? I didn’t really expect it. No! I mean, not like that!” he looks away, his ears pink. “I’m not sure why you would go out of your way for me, but I appreciate it.” Sehun snores slightly against Jongin’s side, and Chanyeol chuckles. “Your friend is knocked out over there.”

“Sehunnie is exhausted. They’re working us harder and harder every day.” Jongin gently comb Sehun’s hair with the tips of his fingers, his stands of hair slipping between his fingers like black sand. “Plus, he sleeps easily, so it helps.”

“What about you?” Chanyeol asks, looking pointedly at the dark circles under his eyes. Now conscious of them, Jongin laughs sheepishly, his chuckle falling short like a faint whimper. “Aren’t you tired?”

“I don’t know, what’s it like being tired?” Jongin asks, trying to play it off as a joke.

It hits a little too close home to be a joke.

“It hurts, everywhere,” Chanyeol replies. “And you just want to sleep it off. All of it.” The subway cart starts to move, and they’re sandwiched between an old man that’s giggling on his phone and a woman who keeps her frantic eyes on the ground. “Are you tired, then?”

“No,” Jongin lies.

Chanyeol takes off his glasses, and there’s are red marks on the bridge of his nose left. Jongin notices they’re thick lenses, and Jongin self-consciously blinks at his dry contacts. “I’m enjoying the work at the theatre,” Chanyeol admits, setting the glasses down in his lap. “I’ve never gotten this close to art. Ballet, I mean.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Not at all,” he bares his bright teeth, his eyes crinkling so sweetly. “Ballet seems like something I’ll ever grasp. But, I’m enjoying it. I’m really liking my new life.” He leans back, and his hair threatens to come undone from its professional styling. “It’s simple, and I like simple.”

Jongin smiles, trying not to move so much so that Sehun can rest comfortably. “Then I hope everything stays simple for you, hyung.” A few people brush past their knees when the cart shakes, and he is pressed against Chanyeol’s side with the halt of the cart. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he breathes out nervously. “I’d move but I don’t think I...” _can._ Sehun has slumped against Jongin without much quarrel, and his arm is slung over Jongin’s lap like a baby.

“I don’t mind, it’s alright.” Chanyeol’s voice is deeper and fuller when it’s tickling his ear, and he can’t help but squirm. “You’re not even heavy, so don’t worry about it.” Chanyeol relaxes against the back of the seat, and Jongin tries his best to make room for the man, but Sehun’s dead weight leaning against him makes it difficult.

To cut the awkward silence, Chanyeol pulls out his phone, cased within a minty blue case that’s cracked in the corner. For a moment, Jongin’s not sure what he’s trying to do. “I...you have a very nice phone?” Jongin tries, staring at the black screen. “It’s very pretty.”

Chanyeol’s mouth twitches. “Oh. That’s awkward. I was trying to see if you’re into, I don’t know, horoscopes?” he asks hopefully, waving his phone in the air to the point where Jongin worries that it’ll drop and crack on the spot. “I sound awfully lame right now but I just think, I don’t know. I’ll stop talking.” He turns his head and holds his head with his hands.

“Wait,” Jongin says quickly. “Horoscopes, I like them. You don’t sound lame at all, hyung, don’t worry.” Chanyeol turns his head slowly back to him and looks at him dubiously. “I like horoscopes, they’re nice to look at in the newspapers.”

“You still read newspapers?” Chanyeol asks, relaxing a bit.

“And you don’t?” Jongin throws back with ease, and a small part of him is surprised with himself. “Sorry...”

Chanyeol shakes his head, his eyes steady. “Please don’t apologize,” he says slowly. “Hey, let’s make a deal. Let’s not apologize to each other anymore? I think I’ve said sorry to you this week than I have to anyone else in the past five years, and I’ve heard the most apologies in my life from you in this one week.” Catching the guilty look on Jongin’s face, he raises his brows. “Don’t do it, don’t say sorry.”

“Okay.” Jongin agrees. “I won’t say _that_ word.”

“So what’s your horoscope sign?” Chanyeol says, moving on.

“I’m the year of the dog.”

He opens some kind of app and clicks on the silhouette of a dog with a wagging tail. “Today’s horoscope for you is, _as the day goes on, you may feel more and more optimistic. Expect to enjoy satisfying relationships with people you see every day. This is a lucky time for action on any plan or project. Be ready to present a practical reason for important decisions. A friend may expand your horizons._ ” Chanyeol hands him the phone with a shrug. “See for yourself. I think you have a very nice horoscope for today. I’m glad.”

Jongin handles the phone with care, bringing it up closer to his face to see it more clearly. “A friend...may expand your horizons.” He looks up at Chanyeol with bright eyes. “Will you be that friend, hyung? Expand my horizons?”

“Am I being entrusted with that duty?” Chanyeol jokes. “Maybe. Maybe I can.”

Jongin hands him back his phone. “What’s your sign, hyung?”

“Year of the monkey.” Chanyeol taps his fingers against the screen of his phone, looking comfortable. “I’m hoping this will be a good year for me. Lend me some of your luck?” Jongin laughs quietly, wanting to stay quiet in the subway train but he can’t resist. He nods, and Chanyeol takes it. “Okay, let’s see... ‘ _expect things to get better today. You're strong and unafraid to go after something that catches your attention. Ask for feedback. Creative ideas should be fleshed out with practical work. This will help slow you down and allow you to see things without over-exuberance or romantic notions._ ’” He hums in thought. “What do you think, Jongin? About my horoscope?”

“I think you’re lucky as well. It seems like it really will be your year.” Jongin nods as he talks, and Chanyeol finds it so endearing. “Strong and unafraid, good traits. I wish I had those.” Maybe there’s a bit of wistful talk dabbed in between his words, and Chanyeol notices this.

“Would you...like to be my creative idea, then? I mean, uh, muse. ‘ _Creative ideas should be fleshed out with practical work.’_ I might actually need more creativity, so would you want to? Be my ballet dancer muse?” Chanyeol laughs nervously, his hollow, deep voice allowing the chuckle to be more pronounced. “I could use a ballet dancer as a Yeonhui tour guide and buddy.”

“If you’ll be the friend that expands my horizons.” Jongin suggests. “I could use that.” Sehun whimpers against him, pressing his face closer into Jongin’s jacket. Chanyeol smiles at the sight, the young man clinging onto Jongin like a baby. Jongin mindlessly strokes his friend’s hair, lulling him back into comfort. “Could you tell me my horoscope daily? If that’s no issue. They seem so fun.” Jongin looks at him eagerly, and Chanyeol blanks.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Can I text you them? If that’s okay with you?” Chanyeol hands him his phone. Sehun snores into Jongin’s arm, and it tickles. Hovering his thumb over the contacts, he raises his brows at the contact list on Chanyeol’s phone. _Four people,_ there’s only four people named in the contacts. _Yoora, Baekhyun, Jongdae,_ and someone dubbed _D.K._ Feeling a tad bit guilty for invading at Chanyeol’s privacy, he can’t help but wonder why.

Five people now.

Jongin quickly punches into his number and hands back the phone to Chanyeol. “Yoora got me into horoscopes, really. She has sticky notes of her favorite dailies on the fridge at home. It’s nice to look at,

though, and it’s better than other hobbies.”

“How come I never heard about you? From Yoora?” Jongin asks, toying with Sehun’s unresponsive fingers. “I was...surprised. I thought I knew everyone in Yeonhui. I tried my best.”

“I guess the subject never came up, don’t worry.” Chanyeol taps his hand against the steel pole with steady gaze sewn to his eyes. The person next to them gets off, and there’s more room for them. However, neither of them makes a move to scoot over, comfortable where they are, like it, even. “When’s our stop?”

“In three minutes.”

“Ah,” Chanyeol nods. “By the way, where is your other roommate? Luhan, that one?”

Jongin shrugs, biting his lower lip. He’ll wake up with chapped lips tomorrow, but that’s an issue for another day. “He’s out for drinks, I think. Hyung is a great drinker, he is. Lu-hyung takes beer with Bacchus. Well, he takes beer with anything.” Jongin trails off with a chuckle. “He’ll take it even with a smoothie.”

“What about you?” Chanyeol asks, amused. “Can you handle your drinks well?”

Jongin shakes his head, his chest feeling feathery. “I’m a two pot screamer. I’m bad with alcohol. Even wine.”

“We have something in common.”

It’s their stop, and Jongin nudges Sehun awake. “Hey, Sehun-ah. Get up, you’ll get right to bed okay? Just don’t fall asleep...” he grunts when Sehun whines into Jongin, tossing his arms around him. “Here.” Chanyeol grabs Jongin’s duffel bag along with his own backpack. “Oh, thank you, hyung. I can take it from here.”

“How many hours do you guys get a night?” Chanyeol asks worryingly. “It’s not healthy the way Sehun is so sleepy.” Chanyeol reaches out to grip Sehun’s shoulder, like a doctor to a patient. “Hey, Sehun-ssi? You alright there?”

Sehun looks up with bleary eyes. “Just tired. Worn out.”

“He was up really late last night,” Jongin says quietly. “It’s not unusual, though. We’re used to running on little sleep.”

Chanyeol looks between them helplessly. “It’s not normal, though. Get a good night’s rest tonight, your body is sending out a warning.”

“Oh, what do you know—” Sehun starts, then shuts his mouth promptly. “Never mind. Yeah okay, the whole doctor degree and stuff.” He shoots Chanyeol a weak thumbs up and takes the duffel bag from him with a quirk of a smile. “Hey, you’re not so bad. You pass the Oh Sehun test, don’t think I didn’t hear your conversation.”

Jongin looks over at him. “I thought you were asleep?”

“I was just resting eyes,” Sehun says cheekily. “Plus, I wanted a reason to cuddle my little Jongin, teddy bear.”

They all end up walking side by side, Chanyeol a little bit slower than the other two by a few steps. “My place is actually close to where you guys live,” he admits. “A street over. It’s a blue house, with Yoora’s weird garden decor in the front.” Jongin and Sehun already knows where Yoora lives, but they let him talk anyways. It’s endearing.

“Great,” Sehun says, his voice less drowsy and suddenly more clear. The refreshing Seoul air puts an extra bounce in their steps. “More bonding time with the great Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol seems shy. “Am I being glorified here?”

Sehun shrugs, looking over at Jongin. “You’re pretty glorious to me. You got Jongin to laugh and call you hyung. He's not always so quick to warm up to perfect strangers. That’s a feat not even Odysseus can achieve. You’re basically Odysseus version 2.0.”

Jongin blinks. “Who’s Odysseus?”

“Some asshole who’s dead now,” Sehun replies without much thought.

“What happened to him?” Jongin frowns, tugging on Sehun’s sleeve. Sehun chuckles and waves him off.

Sehun regards Chanyeol for a long moment like he's sizing him up. “Hey, Chanyeol-ssi, I can call you hyung, right?” Sehun pulls Jongin’s hand into his, and Chanyeol notices. Sehun’s touch warms up Jongin’s hand immediately, like a burner on low, heat crawling into the nooks and crannies. “You get brownie points for being a seemingly good person.”

Chanyeol says nothing at first. “Seemingly, huh? It appears to be that way,” he murmurs, his backpack looking out of place on him, being a bit too small and looking like a high schooler. “And yes, please call me hyung.” They all tell each other to watch out for the steps at the charcoals scatters and stubborn ice. The road home is silent, and the lack of street lights leaves Jongin feeling cold again.

In front of the red house, Jongin turns to Chanyeol. “Will you get home okay from here? Alone? The streets are dark and it’s so cold outside...”

“I’m six feet and decently built,” Chanyeol says with a drip at the end of his voice. It’s not sarcasm, and Jongin isn’t sure what it is. “I’ll be good from here. Good night, Jongin and Sehun. Make sure you sleep tonight.”

“Goodnight, hyung.” Jongin waves. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sleep well!”

Sehun whistles when Chanyeol makes his way up the street with long strides. “Can’t believe you talked about horoscopes for like fifteen minutes. Who talks about horoscopes that long?”

Jongin opens the door for them both, frowning up at Sehun. “You were supposed to be asleep. You tricked me.” He hurries to turn on the lights before one of them trips over something, like a bump in the rug or a shoe left isolated. “Are you going to sleep right away?”

“Eh,” Sehun shrugs, pulling off his jacket by the loop of his hoodie. “I’m kind of awake now. Might actually get drunk. Then sleep.”

“Please don’t, Sehunnie.”

♕♕♕

Jongin isn’t sure what time it is when they hear a loud slam of the door. He jolts up, clutching the back of his pillow by reflex. The wooly blanket tears mark into Jongin’s skin, and everything is dark in the room except for the lights outside the windows. Sehun groans irritably, muffling his face into his own pillow. “It’s the fucking bastard making a _grand_ entrance. Jongin, just pretend you’re asleep when he comes up.” Sehun says it all in a whisper-shout.

“But,” Jongin tugs hisblanket in closer to his chest, looking up at the wooden ceiling of the bunk beds. “I should check on Luhan-hyung and see if he’s eaten yet.” He looks over at the clock that stares back in angry red numbers, 4 AM. “He’ll be so tired tomorrow.”

Sehun sighs, and Jongin hears more rustling, like he’s getting comfortable again for sleep. “He doesn’t eat, Jongin,” he says tiredly. “And you’re not his caretaker. Ignore him when he comes up, okay? Do it for me? It’s fucking 4 AM and there’s no way in hell am I taking his shit talk right now.” They hear Luhan coming up the stairs, the elder not even bothering with taking off his shoes at the steps, the sound of his boots stomping against the stairs loudly and clear. “Go back to sleep. No talking.”

Freezing, Jongin quickly falls back onto his bed and pulls the covers over his head. He can see through the tiny, tiny holes in the knit wool when the bedroom door swings open. _Do it for Sehunnie, Sehun is tired. Do it for Sehun,_ his little thought encourages him when Luhan lingers at the doorway for a good few seconds. Through the blanket, he can see a frazzled hyung, his collar barely buttoned and all wrinkled.

“Ah, no fun.” Luhan says out loud to particularly no one, but yet at the same time, directed towards Sehun and Jongin. His voice is heavily accented, and Jongin flinches at the way he sounds so different and not like Luhan at all—yet, very Luhan. Alcohol, or whatever he was drinking had broken down the almost perfect Korean of his. “My little lovers are all sleeping beauties.” He laughs at his own joke, and Jongin notices that he’s getting a lot closer to his bed.

_Be quiet, be quiet for Sehun. Sehun is tired._

“Jongin-ah,” Luhan whispers, and it’s the quietest Jongin has ever heard him. “You’re already asleep?” Jongin doesn’t answer. He can’t. “What a shame, I wanted my Jonginnie to sleep with me. Cuddle, you liked cuddles, right?” he continues cooing, running a hand through Jongin’s hair as the latter pretends to be asleep. He wants to pull the blanket away and hug Luhan, but a promise is a promise.

Luhan staggers to his feet, pulling his hand away from Jongin’s head. With the hallway light peeking through the door, Jongin can see for himself the dark love bites on Luhan’s neck, some trailing down to his arms. They’re all flushed red he thinks, but it’s a little bit hard to tell with the dim lighting. Jongin feels a shiver down his spine, because they look too similar to bruises.

_Love bites._


	5. VCR Tapes

6:21 시간

 **Chanyeol** : Good morning, do I send it now? Or is it 2 early?

 

Jongin looks down at his phone. His toothbrush is in his mouth, sandwiched between the palate of his mouth and his tongue. He smiles, even if he looks a little bit gross with toothpaste inking the corners of his lips and leaving a dry feeling in his mouth.

 

 **Jongin:** Good morning, hyung! You can send it now, please! Are you well?

 **Chanyeol:** Hi, i am good

 **Chanyeol:**  Slow down and find happiness in others. Thts what it says

 

He finds Chanyeol’s text slang adorable.

Jongin spits out his toothpaste into the sink, dabbing at his lips with the towel on the hanger. He continues to stand at the sink in nothing but a baggy t-shirt, smiling like a fool at his phone screen. He plops down on the toilet seat cover, using the bathroom light as the only passageway to visionary purposes. Luhan is still asleep, so the lights are dead in the bedroom. Sehun, in dripping wet hair and a handful of dirty laundry, looks over at Jongin curiously.

“Do you have a stomach ache or something? Why are you just sitting there?” Sehun asks, stuffing all of the clothes into the hamper. Laundry day is on Saturday, Jongin reminds himself. “How are your headaches, by the way?”

Jongin shakes his head, bringing his feet up to the toilet seat as well, so that his chin is resting on his knees. A jolt sparks under his skin of his bruises being touched. “I’m not sick or anything. I’m just...” he squints at the message sent. “Supposed to take things slow. And find happiness in others? How do I do that? The last one?”

Sehun snorts. “You won’t find an answer to that in this house, not with us.” He gets on his knees, snatching up clothes that had fallen out of the basket, and tossing it back with the rest of the dirty laundry. “I suggest alcohol, sex, or food. More so the last one than the first two, actually. Bad advice on my part.”

Sehun leaves the bathroom with the basket pressed against his chest and his lanky arms around it.

“Food?” Jongin asks.

“Yes, food. Happiness is synonymous with food,” Sehun deadpans. He nods his chin towards the door. “Let’s go get coffee before the fucker wakes up, eh? Coffee should bring you that weird _zen_ you’re talking about.”

 

6:28 시간

 **Jongin:** Where do you find this happiness?

 **Chanyeol:** ㅠㅠㅠㅠ I don’t know...

 **Chanyeol:** From people?

 **Jongin:** Who? Hyung?

 **Chanyeol:** ㅠㅠ

 **Jongin:** Hyung, tell me yours?

 **Chanyeol:** ...Oh. I don’t like mine today. It tells me I’m moody and bad.

 

Jongin looks up from his phone. It’s nearly 6:30, and he should’ve been dressed already. He sneaks back to the bedroom where Luhan is still asleep. Lowering himself to his knees so that breath tickles the latter’s skin, he cautiously touches his cheeks. It’s not hard to see the love marks on his neck, a muted red against the pearly skin.

“Find happiness in others,” Jongin whispers, staring at Luhan’s sleeping face. It hadn’t changed much, except at one point he was shorter than Luhan, at the ripe, weak age of twelve. His arms were too long for his body then, and his heart was too heavy for his good days. Luhan back then, was of the sweet age of twenty-one, and Jongin had liked the way he smiled, so warm and full of life.

That smile withered and died before Luhan saw his twenty-third birthday, and maybe it never existed at all.

He runs his thumb over Luhan’s lips, that often kissed his neck, thighs, or Jongin’s own chapped ones. Luhan calls those kisses their secrets _,_ with the whole lock-and-key sort of deal. _Secrets,_ Jongin feels his skin rise and chill. “Find happiness in...” he leans in to kiss Luhan’s forehead with a minty mouth. “Others.”

When he stands up, his ears betray him, and he's back in childhood.

The television box in the corner of the living room with its statics and waves, the kind that makes him feel like he’s in a horror movie. His sisters weren’t old fashion. No, in fact, Jungah dabbled in tablets and laptops that widened her prescription level, whereas Eunhee dabbed her lips of red lipstick with liquor store receipts. Time, though, had stopped at the living room door, and maybe that’s why Jongin had liked their living room so much, because there was peace in playing movies from VCR tapes that no one ever bothered to rewind.

Jongin feels like that television box right now, a little bit out of loop. Or perhaps he’s those unwind tapes, always left at the end of the movies where the credits roll in without anyone knowing who the actors and actresses really are. The noisy furnace isn’t so loud; everything softened like wax on a hot parade day. Jongin breathes out, but he doesn’t actually _hear_ it.

Jongin was seven-years-old when he learned he wasn't the picture-perfect boy, and twenty-year-old Jongin walks in his footsteps again.

 _It’s not so bad,_ he tells himself. Jongin takes his jacket and walks downstairs in careful stepping. _It’s not bad at all. It’s just quiet._ After his brain accepts this Todd attack as _okay,_ he zips up his jacket and sees Sehun folding the blankets on the couch. He waves to him, and Sehun says something so softly that Jongin can’t hear, even if he tries.

“Coffee?” Jongin says instead, hoping Sehun won’t notice.

He doesn’t.

Sehun says something, making animated hand gestures that speak volumes. Jongin just nods and puts on his shoes, the silence a little bit overbearing.

 

6:39 시간

 **Jongin:** I’ll give you mine then

 **Jongin:** My good one

 **Chanyeol:** Wow...I can’t.

 **Chanyeol** : You’re too kind.

 **Jongin:** What are you doing now?

 

His fingers freeze on the screen, and he can already feel the red heat crawling up on the back of his neck. _Oh no,_ his inner voice drips of panic and worry. _What if I was too impolite? Oh my gosh, I’m terrible. Absolutely terrible, just horrid—_ Sehun grabs him by the shoulder, and Jongin realizes that his hearing is back to normal. Thank God.

“Uh,” Sehun starts off warily. “I wouldn’t really care, but you look like you’re ready to...cry?” Sehun has his hair hidden in a hat, and he looks like a teenager again, even though he’s only a few years shy of being one again. “You can say that I’m pretty concern, what’s up? Did you see sad news on the web? Someone’s puppy died or something?”

“Don’t joke about dead animals,” Jongin frowns up at his best friend. “I don’t...I feel uncomfortable. And I just...I think I made a mistake.” He says the last part in a low voice, as if it would shake the walls had he say it any louder. “Sehun-ah, what do I do?”

“Well, uh, that depends on what you did?” Sehun says, unsure. Jongin hands him off the phone, albeit hesitant.

“I used informal language with Chanyeol-hyung,” Jongin says, even quieter than before.

Sehun stares at him flatly, and tosses the phone back into struggling hands. “I can’t deal with you right now, fuck, I thought you were genuinely upset.”

“I am!”

“It’s just texting! He sent you something by the way. Already close, huh?”

 

 **Chanyeol:** Just dressing

 **Chanyeol:** It’s cold! Dress warmly today, okay?

 

Jongin imagines Chanyeol fitting himself into a turtleneck, the tight but stretchy fabric pulling itself over his head and messing up his soft-colored hair.

 

 **Jongin:** Do you want to drink coffee?

 **Chanyeol:** Are you inviting me?

 

He looks up from the screen and at the windows. Spring cleaning wasn’t really in spring, but a few weeks ago when they washed the window curtains that used to be white. It’s dripping, and he knows the rain will pour. Coffee during the rain outside is _aesthetic,_ as Soojung always calls it. She had once dragged both him and Yixing out to Gangwon in a rain shower for the photos that fuel her SNS.

Jongin grabs their two only umbrellas—Luhan doesn’t believe in umbrellas, but Jongin is sure he has one anyways—and peeks into the kitchen. “Sehun-ah, Chanyeol-hyung will have coffee with us, is that okay with you?” he asks, wanting to make sure Sehun won't be uncomfortable with Chanyeol.

“Don’t care,” Sehun replies. “You don’t need my permission. And Chanyeol-hyung seems pretty cool.” Jongin nods happily, and types back a _yes_ to Chanyeol.

“A week ago,” Jongin says slowly, “you said that he was crazy. The neighborhood called him crazy. But...we didn’t know him before, so how did you...?”

Sehun thinks for a little bit. “Oh, that’s true. You don’t know Jongin, maybe he is crazy. Maybe the neighborhood is right.” Sehun fits himself into his sneakers, and the laces are sodded with gray and dirt. “Crazy has a lot of definitions.”

Jongin toys with the hems of the umbrellas in a stuffy silence that only applies to him. _Crazy,_ he goes over the syllables to himself. He recalls the television box in his old living room again, of the only VCR tape he had ever rewind. Time had stopped in the living room, even with his sisters who were tapping away at their laptops and phones on the couch. _Crazy,_ was the word that his eldest sister had spit out when Jongin watched _Alice in Wonderland._ Crazy, the little blue girl in an equally blue dress and the Mad Hatter.

Isn’t that the only kind of crazy?

Today, Jongin is the first outside of the door for once, and he’s the first to kiss a bit of the rain before squealing from the splatters, and Sehun laughs heartily. “Still afraid of the cold, you really are a kitten.” Sehun scrunches up his nose for theatrical purposes. “Or a puppy. A puppy that doesn’t like cold water.”

“Cold water makes me feel weird,” Jongin says.

“I know,” says Sehun, who ruffles up his friend’s hair before pulling out their umbrella. “That’s why you’re always one of the first to shower. Never getting the cold water, huh?” They’re walking up the streets, and Jongin realizes that they were already walking up to Park Yoora’s home, or well, Yoora and Chanyeol’s home now.

“Do you think Luhan-hyung is sure to get the part?” Jongin asks, the second umbrella is in his hand and opened. Sehun holds the other one for the both of them, his arm only failing him slightly when they walk up the hill that challenges both of their bodies. Dancer bodies, they call them. Dying bodies. “He hasn’t shown a lot of emotions.” Jongin had expected the smaller male to be smug with all the glee pent up in him; to kiss him and demand the younger one to gift him with equal touches. Except, Luhan went out and got drunk with another lover.

Jongin’s hand reaches up to touch his neck, it's an unconscious act. _Does it hurt?_ he wonders, _Luhan and his other lovers._

Thoughts of the flowers that stemmed from Luhan’s neck in suggestive manners bloom wildly, and Jongin decides that it doesn't.

“You know him as well as I do,” grunts Sehun, obviously displeased with the topic of Luhan. “Which is, unsurprisingly and yet disappointingly very little.” Jongin offers to take the umbrella, and they switch it off. “No emotions, it’s almost tragic.”

“No emotions,” Jongin repeats. _But Sehun,_ he wants to say, _remember when he smiled? And we smiled back with uneven smiles?_

Yoora’s house is as blue as theirs is red. Yeonhui owns no invitation for wild parties, but she had always held small hangouts, ones that Jongin often came to. It was nice, being there, with all the low lights as company and music without pattern. “You knock,” Sehun jerks a thumb towards the door painted yellow. “My legs are too tired to walk up the steps.”

“We’re dancers, though.” Jongin blinks. “Are you lying to me?”

Sehun grins. “Maybe.” The rain pours. “Joonmyun is going to look out for parts today, you know? You be careful too, doing everything.”

Jongin knocks on the door, and up close, he can see that the door’s paintwork was done at home. Uneven strokes that could have been mistaken for a Picasso reference, he can’t help but giggle.

The door swings open, revealing a frazzled Yoora. “Ah...” she blinks a few times out of confusion and most likely to wipe the sleep from her eyes. “You are...oh, you’re Jonginnie.” Yoora looks over Jongin’s shoulder and her pretty eyes widen when she sees Sehun. “Oh! And Sehun-ah, oh, so many handsome men in the streets right now!” She clasps her hands together, despite looking as if she had woken up a good ten minutes ago.

“Did we wake you?” Jongin asks, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, forget that this is usually early.”

Yoora shakes her head, looking more awake. “No, my brother did. He was running around the house looking for his socks. Woke me up when he stubbed his toe.” She shakes her head, adjusting her collar and wrinkled nightgown. “He may be twenty-nine and seems professional, but he’s honestly a dweeb.”

“Chanyeol-hyung?”

“Uh huh,” she taps on the door frame and shakes a bit from the cold. “Are you here for him? Is that why he’s running around the house like a,” she raises her voice and turns her head back to the house. “ _Loud fucking elephant?”_ Jongin waits awkwardly, until he hears thumping and someone hurrying down the staircase.

“Noona,” Chanyeol says before his attention shifts to Jongin. “Hi, Jongin. You could have texted me, you know? You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

Yoora brightens, her scowl fading. “ _Ohhh,_ my Chanyeollie has friends! And he,” she points at Jongin with a child-like smile. “ _actually_ texts them! Chanyeol-ah talks to people, amazing!”

The younger brother’s face turns a little ashy, and he averts his eyes. “Noona.”

“Let’s get coffee, hyung.” Jongin says quickly, hoping to save Chanyeol from Yoora’s embarrassment. “The only coffee shop opened now is _Manufact_ so we should drink there.” He offers Chanyeol his hand, which he takes. Yoora squeals and Chanyeol tries to hush her, and Jongin raises the umbrella at an uncomfortable height so that the giant could fit under it. He isn’t so much taller than Jongin, really, it’s just that Jongin can’t help but feel so much _smaller_ beside to him.

Chanyeol, without a word, wraps his own hand around the umbrella handle, his fingers brushing along Jongin’s. “I’ll hold it,” he whispers as they make their way down the steps. The rain pours, and patches of water splashes marks themselves on Chanyeol’s shoulders, making Jongin gasps.

“Your clothes are getting wet! I’m sorry, I’ll bring a bigger umbrella next time.” _Next time,_ Jongin wonders if Chanyeol would like a next time.

“Remember last night?” Chanyeol asks, taking the umbrella from him and holding it so that both of them are safe under it. “Our promise, no more apologies. No more _sorrys_ and anything synonymous to it. Will you listen to a hyung?” A little bit of Jongin’s jeans gets wet at the hem when they reach the bottom of the stairs, Sehun greeting them.

“I’ll listen,” Jongin replies, his voice soft around the edges and spoken with a tongue that conversed with the majesties. Sehun turns to them with a chuckle stuck in his throat. He holds out his umbrella, offering for Jongin to fit under with him, like they always did as fifteen-year-olds on wet April days. “I’ll move over to him so you’ll have enough room—” Chanyeol’s hand curls around the sleeve of Jongin’s jacket, but it only lasts a good few seconds. Letting go, he clears his throat with an awkward smile.

“It’s alright, we fit under one umbrella just fine.” Chanyeol waves to Sehun. “Hello, good morning Sehun-ah.”

“I thought I was going to freeze to death waiting down here,” Sehun says dramatically, with a head swing and a wave of arms. “You guys took _ages._ ”

Jongin’s shoulder is pressed against Chanyeol, the sound of the rain pattering down their umbrella serves as a backdrop to Chanyeol’s humming. He can't help but look up at the man, unsure how anyone could seem so happy in the pouring rain. Sehun looks over his shoulder curiously at the two, his expression mostly muddled by the rain. When Jongin flashes a smile, Sehun’s face clears up and he looks away.

Chanyeol’s humming buzzes in his ear, and the rainy weather doesn't seem so bad anymore.

 

♕♕♕

“So tell me about yourself, Mr. Park.” Sehun puts on a fake report voice, using the straw of his coffee as a microphone. “You mysteriously came out of nowhere and challenge my place as the tallest man of this neighborhood.”

“You’re not _that_ tall, Sehunnie.” Jongin nudges him with a grin. “You’re forgetting old noona.” _Old noona_ is a stumbling woman of a good six feet and a few more centimeters. Jongin had always thrived in her presence when she towered over him with a smile and a basket of fruits to sell. “She challenges everyone we know.”

“That’s not it! I said the tallest _man._ Male. The opposite of female, the other team!” Sehun slurps his cold coffee, elbow on the table and his shoulders hunched. “So how about it, hyung? Ten facts, ten cold, hard facts about yourself.”

“Ten,” Chanyeol hums. “That’s a lot.” He turns to Jongin and the smallest of smiles splits across his face. Jongin, shying away, looks down at his coffee, a swirl of the cream floats atop like a tiny sailboat. Yes, Jongin likes these mornings; so calm and full of serenity, right before a wind storm of rushing traffic and blisters on their feet. “Well, one—I...uh, I studied abroad?” he tries, and Jongin’s smile widens. _I already know,_ Jongin thinks.

“Interesting, scholar man.” Sehun says, wiping his pink lips with a napkin. “Where?”

“Canada,” replies Chanyeol. “That's the only interesting thing about me. Sorry to disappoint you two.”

“You’re not a disappointment, hyung.” Chanyeol looks at Jongin in the eye, and he notices how soft the hyung’s pupils are around the whites. Like melting chocolate almost, framed by lashes longer than the false ones that Soojung glues on for the shows.

“I like stories,” he tries again, twisting his face in thought. Instead of making his face less handsome, Jongin thinks it makes him like a puppy, a really, really fluffy one. “You’d laugh if I told you which.”

“Can’t be that bad,” Sehun says, trying to ease him up a bit. “Jongin-ah over here reads poetry, the depressing kind. I tease him all the time for it.”

“Poetry is really nice, though,” says Jongin, frowning. on the chipped shelf that rests between the television and a desk stuffed with nicotine gum and spare change. There's a box, all stacked up and full of used books of poetry that an old neighbor handed off to him. Reading his favorite poems when he's nervous or anxious relaxes him like nothing else. “You just don’t like reading.”

He doesn't mention that poetry chases his nightmares away.

“Children’s books,” Chanyeol says quietly. “I like reading children’s books.” It’s quiet in the coffee shop, and the rain outside is louder than any of their breaths. “Hah, weird, isn’t it? Twenty-nine-year-old reading books for toddlers.”

Jongin reaches over and pats Chanyeol’s hand with his own, surprised when he traces the veins by accident. _Strong hands,_ Jongin concludes, and his chest feels right for a moment. “Not weird at all,” he soothes him, and Sehun nods. “There’s nothing wrong with pretty books.”

“Pretty books, huh?” Chanyeol picks up his coffee for the first time in the past fifteen minutes they’ve been in the shop. “Pretty and simple. It’s why I like them.”

“Simple?”

Nothing in Jongin’s life has ever been simple, like the unpronounceable on white sticky labels pressed on plastic orange bottles, Amitripty-something. The conversations often shared with a drunk Luhan aren't straightforward either, and Jongin has picked up on some Mandarin that often slipped through his Korean. 笨蛋, _stupid egg,_ or 龟蛋, _turtle egg._ Jongin doesn’t understand Luhan’s obsession with vulgar egg swears, so that isn’t so simple either.

When Chanyeol nods his head and laughs quietly to one of Sehun’s overused jokes, Jongin can’t help but stare at him in between sips of coffee. The slope of his nose is interrupted by a cartilage, his wide and animated eyes paired with crinkles around them. There’s nothing to unravel under the flesh of a man whom he met nearly a week ago, even if his smile seems a tad bit too sad.

“You look deep in thought,” says Chanyeol, pulling Jongin out of his own mind. He taps at his own coffee cup and nods at his.

The simplicity that dedicates itself to Chanyeol, he wonders if it’s that easy.

“I was just thinking, my head hurts a little.” Sehun shoots Jongin a worried glance, one that speaks of caution and urgency. Jongin lifts up his smile, in hopes it’ll serve as a good enough reassurance. “I didn’t mean to drift off, hyung, I—” _no sorrys,_ Jongin reminds himself with a pinch. “I’ll listen, what was that?”

Chanyeol leans on his the flat of his palm, exposing a wristwatch and a few paper cuts. “Oh, it's nothing.” When he puts his cup down, it’s empty except for the dregs. Sehun is on his phone now, most likely texting Minseok. “Tell me about yourself, we can exchange facts. Have you played this game before?”

Jongin shakes his head. “I never had anyone I needed to play it with.”

Chanyeol nods slowly. “I’ll be that someone now then. You can say that you’ve played it.”

Jongin beams. “Okay, hyung.”

Sehun looks up momentarily from his phone, a few strands of his bangs curtains over his eyes. “Jongin likes eggplants.”

“Sehun!”

He just shrugs half-heartedly, biting the gray straw in his mouth without much care. “Nothing, carry on.”

Chanyeol scoots in closer, his wrist brushing against Jongin’s arm. There’s something different about him. The same age as Luhan but yet, they are worlds apart. He wonders why. Up close, he can see the the different tones of brown in Chanyeol’s hair and he wonders if I is as soft as it looks. Jongin lets his hands rest in his lap, fidgeting.

“What’s your favorite hobby?” Chanyeol tries, his voice cracking at the end. It’s adorable.

“Ballet.” It’s Jongin’s immediate answer, and his face perks up when he says it.

Chanyeol laughs. “Other than your profession, Jongin-ah.”

Jongin makes an _oh_ face. _Attending ballet, watching Luhan and Yixing-hyung dance. I like helping Soojung break in her pointe shoes, and I like cutting out pictures of contemporary ballet dancers._ It all buzzes through his head in an orderly fashion, like dominoes splitting down the middle as they collapse. Something hurts in his stomach, and he knows it’s not his digestive track. “I like...” he struggles. “I like ballet. That’s all.” _Is it so wrong?_

Chanyeol takes it, and leans back into the chair. There’s a certain elegance to him when he lazes into the leather seats, and Jongin is in awe of that. “It must be nice, to have a life of only ballet.” It doesn’t sound condescending, it doesn’t at all. “So simple.” Wistful.

 _But hyung, my life is anything but simple,_ Jongin thinks.

“It is.”

Jongin almost never lies.

And that's a lie, too.

“What’s yours, hyung?” Jongin asks, trying to ease the clenching in his throat and stomach. _I lied, I lied and I’m so sorry._ “What do you like to do?”

“I like books,” he says softly, and Jongin has to strain his ear to hear. “I’d say drinking, but I’m not so much of a good drinker. I’m really a lightweight.”

Sehun pats Jongin on the back, without looking up from his phone. “Jonginnie here is too. Give him one drink and he’ll bawl.” He pauses, as if waiting for some sort of consent. “Jongin is a sad drunk.”

“Do you drink often?” Chanyeol asks, furrowing his brows. “You’re young, aren’t you? Twenty?”

Jongin’s chest falls, but not like buildings. It falls, or drips rather, like sand. There is a difference he sees, in Luhan and Chanyeol. _Luhan._ “ I’m young,” he repeats, mostly to himself. “But I’m an adult.” _Even if most days, I don’t feel like one._ “Thank you for your input, however, hyung.”

Chanyeol looks taken back. “Oh, I didn’t mean...if I sounded reprimanding, I’m sorry.”

Jongin’s chest and shoulders don’t feel so heavy anymore. “No apologies, remember?”

The plastic clock on the wall and Chanyeol’s gold karat watch is both dubbed in the time, 7:41 AM. Jongin nudges Sehun, and in the process, his fingers curl around a fistful of his jacket. _Baby fists,_ Yixing always called them, whenever he saw Jongin latch onto either of his roommates. It’s not a bad thing, he tells himself, because it’s not. Sehun looks over at him, questioningly.

“What’s up?”

“Hyung...er, Lu-hyung. He usually wakes up around this time. Do you think he has enough Advil at home? I might have to go home, he’ll be sick if we don’t...” Jongin’s voice falters, and he finds himself unable to continue on with Chanyeol here. He bites down on his lips and hopes Sehun understands. “I should go home.”

Sehun gives him a short look, reminiscent of the tired, long ones he’d give him countless times before. He quirks into a grin before running a hand through Jongin’s hair, fondly. Almost motherly. “It’s fine, I’ll go home. You keep Chanyeol-hyung here company?”

“But Lu—,”

“—Is hungover enough to not recognize the difference between us.” Sehun’s eyes bored into him, speaking on the behalf of seriousness and gentle hearts. “Sorry hyung, I gotta go. See you later at the physio, probably? Or subway, who knows.”

They both listen to Sehun hurry down the stairs, crushing the fliers and empty plastic cups that litter the entrance.

“It’s no fun, right?” Jongin asks. “Hanging around us. We’re always running off.”

“I like your company,” Chanyeol says without skipping a beat. “It’s better that way, too. You’re doing something productive and interactive. When I was twenty, all I did was study.”

“Just study?” Jongin asks, curious. “But you’re so... _interesting,_ hyung.”

Chanyeol smiles. “Just studied. Maybe it was because I couldn’t speak to anyone in Canada, or I wasn’t...” he taps on the rim of his cup. He glanced over at the two brothers that run the shop, seeming lost.

Jongin shakes his head. “Talk to Jong-jin, not Jong-pil.” He leans in, unaware that his breath tickles the elder’s skin. “Jong-jin will get your coffee quickly, but Jong-pil will talk you through the excruciating process.” Chanyeol lights up, and nods, standing up to order.

When he comes back, there are two cups of coffee in his hands. “I wanted to buy you one, too, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted anymore caffeine. You can throw it out if you don’t want it, I should’ve asked.” He’s rambling again, Jongin notice.

“You’re a kind hyung,” says Jongin. Maybe a small part of him is surprised. “Thank you for the coffee. I’ll pay you back.”

“You already did.”

“Huh?”

Chanyeol pulls out his phone, the one with the chipped phone case. At first, Jongin thinks he’s not going to reply, maybe to check the weather or something more important than him. Except, the gray-dyed man holds up the phone, with the messages between him and Chanyeol on full display. _Jongin-ah_ is the name in for his contact, and he can’t help but smile.

“Payment, for giving me your horoscope today.” He leans back and swirls the tiniest spoon in his coffee. It’s black, dark and bitter. “I found happiness today. It’s all _simple_ and relaxing, thank you.” He looks around the coffee shop in awe, and he reminds Jongin of himself when he first moved to Yeonhui as in his earliest teen years, when this shop was nothing but a couple of chairs and the same plastic clock.

Chanyeol fits in here, and Jongin finds it so comforting. _A new friend._

"You can keep it, too."


	6. Garden Boy

The first time Jongin transferred into the company was terrifying.

He had been in awe of the Seoul Theatre for years, and that had been made known quickly.

A _little fanboy_ was what they called them. _Little freak,_ more like it. He came from a feeder school; the dance academy with its hips attached to the company was Jongin’s happy hell and home. The instructors were kind enough. The heat was thorough and legwarmers only stayed on for a good hour or two.

The company now, though, may have swayed Jongin’s vision. The instructors are all druggies or unmarried alcoholics, even if they were shining stars in their younger years. The heat leaves the room and seems to stay put in the director’s office in particular, even if they claim that it’s just a coincidence.

_It’s still so beautiful, though._

3 PM, and the dressing room reeks of cologne. Yixing is on the floor, rolling his neck back and forth. His hair is all muzzled and his lips are curled up in a fashion that could be hiding a secret or white teeth. Jongin sits down next to the man and nudges him as politely as he can. “Hello!” Jongin chirps. “So it’s you and hyung up against each other, huh?”

Yixing looks up at him with an easy smile. “Well, if you put it like that, it sounds more dramatic than it is.” He reaches up and buries his hand into Jongin’s soft hair, pulling him just a _bit closer,_ enough so Jongin catches a whiff of the rosy scented shampoo Yixing uses.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“So sweet,” says Yixing, letting go. “Why are you hanging on me when you could be with Lu, though?” It's a tease, but Jongin feels his stomach flop and tension between lips.

“Hyung went for a smoke,” says Jongin. “Stress smoke.”

“Of course.” Yixing rolls ups on his ankles, even though he doesn’t have pointe shoes on. ‘ _Some people aren’t meant to go en pointe,’_ Luhan words rip through the fabric in Jongin’s mind, and he wonders if it hurts. “You going to watch? The auditions, I mean. If you can even call it that.”

“Am I allowed to?” Jongin asks, sheepishly. “I’m not trying out for the role of Giselle. Is it still going to be called Giselle?”

“Nah,” Yixing shakes his head. “More like Gideon.” He stands up with grace, flattening a hand down his chest to smooth out his shirt. “And I don’t see any reason why not. Joonmyun loves you.”

 _Joonmyun loves you,_ and Jongin stiffens.

When Yixing turns to blow a kiss to him, Jongin catches sight of little bruises on his necks, some marked out of love.

The others, well, you know.

♕♕♕

The rooms are cold, but Jongin doesn’t feel it at all. The spot next to him feels rather neglected with Sehun unwilling to go watch the try-outs. (“They’re not _really_ try-outs,” Sehun had said. “We all know the glorified bastard is gonna get it no matter what. Through sex or broken toes.”) Jongin wants to watch anyways, because all the primas are the most beautiful in performance.

The Nureyev studio is one of his favorite, it being the one with the oldest piano; the gloss has died but the keys are all battered and pretty. Jongin sits up, his back against the mirror. Joonmyun is in sweat pants but his shirt chimes a different tune, and it reminds Jongin of those nice white collared shirts he has seen Chanyeol wear in the physio. Professional, they call it.

Joonmyun catches Jongin’s eye and the former’s face lifts up, fashioning those eye crinkles like an accessory. Jongin’s cheeks flushed, the director quickly strides to where Jongin is sitting. “Ah, Jonginnie. Are you here for Gideon try-outs?” he asks, rather amused.

Jongin shakes his head. “I’m here for hyung, ah, Lu-hyung,” he clarifies. He shrinks inwardly, feeling his knees pressed up against his chest. They’re fading, the bruises, thanks to the week of healing.

“I see, I see.” Joonmyun hums, crouching down so that Jongin can see the crinkles and overlapping materials of his dress shirt. It looks uncomfortable, clashing with the baggy gray sweats that hung low on the man. “Would you like to see Luhan up there? On his toes as the lead role?”

Jongin rolls his shoulder, and his sweater threatens to fall off. He had found it in Luhan’s closet, but it obviously wasn’t his—too large for the older one’s shoulders and too thin that it shows his ribs. “If it makes him happy,” Jongin admits with ease. His lips curl upward, mimicking Joonmyun’s own glee. “I’d love to see Lu happy.”

“I haven’t seen that boy happy in _years,”_ Joonmyun taps his wrist, and it’s lacking a watch.

Jongin pulls at his sleeve. “He’s not a boy, he’s a lot older.” Jongin smiles fondly, Luhan’s baby face seeping into his mind.

Joonmyun stands up, and his sweats look like they’re about to slip off. “I’ve known him since he was the tender age of fifteen,” he says, not with smug or anything malice. Just Joonmyun. “He still feels like that boy to me sometimes.”

A few minutes drags by, with Jongin seeing the soloists and principals piling into the room. Sooyeon is ever so graceful, even with her bare feet. They’re moving in so quickly that he doesn’t catch all of their faces. Jongin strains his neck, hoping to see the familiar tuft of hair that stuck out on the back of Luhan’s head, or the neat cut of hair that has become Yixing’s signature.

He sees Yixing first, his complexion a little too pale. Jongin waves, but he doesn’t notice.

Joonmyun beams at the crowd, his grin swallowing his cheeks when he stands in front of them, posture straight but his foot tapping against the floor rapidly. “Do we have everyone?” he asks, but no one answers. As if on cue, Luhan raps his knuckles against the wooden door, his duffel bag slung over his shoulders. “Glad you’re able to join us Lu.”

“My pleasure,” he says with a tired look in his eyes. There’s a dead cigarette between his fingers, but no one says anything about it. “It’s always a pleasure.” Jongin looks up at him eagerly when Luhan makes his way to where he sits, dropping the bag close to Jongin’s before collapsing onto his knees.

“I’m here to cheer you on,” Jongin whispers, and Luhan looks at him thoughtfully. “You’ll be wonderful, hyung.”

“I know,” breathes out Luhan. He looks genuinely tired, the dark circles under his eyes not concealed and lashes that lost their perk. “But tell them that.” He flicks the cigarette butt across the room and if anyone notices they don't say anything. He looks over at Jongin, little thoughts in the Devil lurking behind his eyes. “Shouldn’t you prepare for your own rehearsal? You _need_ the role.”

Jongin shrugs. “Chanyeol-hyung gave me my horoscope for today. It said to,” he pauses, wondering if Luhan is actually listening. Who knows? “To find happiness in others. I’m going to do that. I’m scared to rehearse. It might jinx me.” Admittance of it takes a quick breath out of Jongin, because no dancer _says_ they’re scared—they’re supposed to steel themselves and just get over it. “Will you come to mine? The one for the Wilis?”

Luhan blinks. “Horoscopes? Ah, those are utter shit.” He puffs out nothing out of reflex. “And sure, sweetheart.”

Jongin flinches, the sugary words at the end not doing a lot to mask the few rough snips.

Joonmyun leans against the parlor grand, his fingers leaving marks on the sleek surface. The pianist’s shoulders are slumped, and Jongin can see the twitch of his left eye that hints at the idea of him wiping it all down at the end of the day again. His face rests like a benediction, and certainly no soul outside of these halls would believe that such a doleful man was nearing his good late thirties.

“My lovelies,” he beams, he shows more teeth than lip, but no one can complain. “Gideon, Giselle, I really _don’t_ give a damn what gender is playing this role. However, I do give give a damn on _who_ plays it. I want...I want savagery.”

Soonkyu’s hand shoots up, and Luhan snorts. “Like a little classroom girl,” he muses. “A terrible fuck, at that.” Jongin says nothing at that, in fear his voice might be too loud in the studio. Another lover of Lu’s, perhaps? He doesn’t know, but Luhan has so many lovers and sweethearts, Jongin wonders if it’s hard to keep track of all their names.

When Soonkyu speaks, her lips play a part on how her words are pronounced, and he can tell that she’s American-born. “Giselle is gentle, though.” She tilts her head up at Joonmyun. “Not a _savage._ ” Sooyeon next to her pinches her side with a warning look, pulling a yelp out of Soonkyu.

Joonmyun just smiles, and the room gets a little colder. He doesn’t open his mouth to say anything, except for a quick stroll around the room, his steps awfully loud even with no shoes on. Sooyeon finally looks over at Luhan’s direction, the latter too involved in picking at his nails to notice her. Sooyeon’s eyes flickers over to Jongin’s presence, before narrowing not-so-prettily.

“What are you doing here?” she hisses, her voice so quiet but laced with venom and spluttering vowels. “Don’t tell me, a corps boy wants to play this role?” When she turns her head, Sooyeon almost looks like Soojung. Except the younger sister has a lot more smile lines and a lighter face; the eldest sister’s face coated in stress and frown marks.

Jongin looks away, and a lump rolls around in his throat. “No, I...”

“Oh shut up,” Luhan snaps, not bothering to lower his voice. “Your voice is _incredibly_ irritating. God, I’d rather listen to Sehun bitch at me, and that’s saying shit.” Sooyeon gaps, her cheeks a swirl of bright pink that contrasts almost comically with her skin.

“I’m just here to watch,” Jongin says quietly, feeling burdensome that his presence had ripped a snap out of Luhan. _Maybe I shouldn’t have come, I caused a mess for Lu I’m terrible I’m terrible I’m terrible—_ “I wanted to see hyung dance.”

Sooyeon, red-faced and a furrow between her brows, says nothing more. Joonmyun continues, “I’ll pick someone to go first then.” Jongin looks up, pulling his duffel bag into his lap. He doesn’t want to take up so much space. “Okay, six of you. Six of you, fabulous. Yuji, is it? Of course, it’s Yuji, you go first.” Joonmyun offers a hand, and Yuji shyly grips onto it with her own bony ones. She’s sporting a _romantic_ tutu, one that almost looks too short to pass for one.

Jongin can’t help but zone out on her.

♕♕♕

Yixing.

They called him garden boy, even if he breathed both the Beijing and Seoul air.

It’s the way he smiles, lilacs and roses wedged between rows of white teeth. Maybe it’s the design of thorns in his back, pricking tender skin and tearing down the fragile wall between his bones and everything else. It's the poppies in his skin. Jongin believes it’s the way he laughed—like April showers that promises thunder.

Jongin has never seen a _real_ garden. The roof top ones of Joonmyun’s penthouse were for aesthetic purposes and no one truly ever watered those. However, with Yixing, tulips trailing down a chest exposed through the two buttons, he has seen nature in its most awful form. He has seen it through the bottom of his glass slicked with wine residue; the way Yixing draped over men and women like vines. The way he laughs nowadays are like April storms with no rain.

And maybe, just maybe, the flowers between his lips had withered just a bit.

Except, the thorns never left when the roses died, and Jongin watches with careful eyes up at the garden boy in the center of the studio. _Pointe shoes,_ even Soonkyu murmurs something. “Crazy bastard.” Her eyes stays on the white satin of Yixing’s shoes. “He wants to die.”

Luhan stays quiet, his eyebrows arched and his lips curled like one of those painted Russian dolls. Yixing looks back at them, his smile only sort of terrible. Joonmyun hums in a muse, his arms crossed against a wrinkled dress shirt. “Pointes,” he says, the smile etched in his voice. “Fantastic. You must be that boy they all tell me about. The one that wants to walk on his toes?” It’s not a question, and Jongin feels his skin go cold as Joonmyun speaks.

“I can,” Yixing replies, his eyes bright and his cheekbones too sharp. Jongin feels his phone buzz against his thigh. “I’m capable.” Joonmyun just shrugs and looks over at the pianist.

“You know the act. Sweet, pretty boy in an artless village. Be confident, dance _like you’re in love._ ” Yixing nods, and he looks over at the other soloists and principals. Jongin wonders who’s looking at. “I want you to dance like you’ll be wedded tomorrow and fucked at midnight.”

Yixing nods again.

“You know...” Joonmyun adds in quietly, but the room echoes. “You don’t have to go _en pointe_ for this part. It’s easily a contemporary, should you get the role.” Yixing just smiles. Jongin watches his feet. Satin ribbons tightly wounded across his ankles. The shanks, he can tell, are wider than the females’. Jongin nudges Luhan. _He’s not meant for pointes, not meant for pointes, not meant for pointes,_ Luhan’s voice rings through Jongin’s head like a tidal wave.

The piano starts to play, and Jongin’s chest constricts. Yixing breathes out, the thorns around his waist seems to pierce through everything he has. The tight shirt of his tells the tale of a fruit diet and sweats. He’s familiar, almost, reminding him of Luhan.

Somewhere in between the F minor keys on the piano and the few short gasps from Sooyeon when Yixing leaps with his body twisted, he dances. Everyone ignores the contorted look between his fair skin and withering smile, all focused on the legs ready to give out. But they don’t, and Luhan counts the beats steadily, silently.

Somewhere, in between the page flip from the pianist and the music turns, Jongin blinks, and he sees himself up there. In the middle of the studio, en pointe with black satin ribbons up to his ankles. Like _they’re_ his. Jongin, en pointe, with a crowd around him, gasping and eyes wide like a perched owl. He hears the applause, chanting, _Jongin, Jongin, Jongin!_

His heart slams against his rib cage, his bottom lip quivering. _I’m Giselle, I’m Giselle._ A leap, a simple _cabriole_ hits against the wooden floors, the ache in his ankles nearly nonexistent and flightless. The piano plays for him, and he is _powerful._ The center of the ballet, with the spotlight chasing him before stealing him away. In a perfect world, in better years, maybe.

Maybe that would have been the case.

When Jongin pries open his eyes, deliberately slow, Yixing continues to twirl. The ache in his ankles is still there.

Yixing smiles brightly when he does a skip, his eyes flashing between the piano and the scattered place of ballet dancers at his feet. The pointe shoes are worn down at the vamp up close, and Jongin stares at the elastic in awe. _Yixing looks so pretty in them,_ he thinks, and looks over at Luhan to see if he thinks so, too.

Instead, he turns to see him with a cigarette between his lips, unlit. It’s like an accessory almost, the brown top of the stick contradicting the pink crease of his lips. He’s not paying attention, not at all. The bruises on his neck are not as bright, and he doesn’t cover it up with a scarf or anything.

_Why do you smoke, hyung?_

Without realizing, the piano stops abruptly, and Jongin is sure that the pianist is sick of playing the same song for five runs. Yixing settles down from his stance, chest only heaving a little more heavily than usually. Joonmyun cocks his head, taking a quick dip towards Yixing. He presses his hands on the man with a wide grin. “Ah, Yixing. I remember when you joined the company, the sweet age of thirteen?”

“Fourteen,” Yixing clarifies, but he’s still smiling.

Joonmyun just nods, giving his shoulders a squeeze. Jongin feels a couch tickling the back of his throat, but he doesn’t want to interrupt the moment. “So _young_ and always wanting to be the best.” Yixing blushes, his hair falling in front of his forehead. Joonmyun lets his hands fall from his shoulders, stuffing them into his pocket instead. “And now, you’re twenty eight and nothing has changed.”

Jongin counts the numbers of ribs shown through his shirt. _Three,_ he thinks, _it’s three._ He pushes his fingers up against his own sides, and it tickles. _Two, just two._ “I’m still wanting to be the best,” Yixing breathes out, and he wonders if it’s just him that hears the former’s voice shake. “I’m still that fourteen-year-old.”

“I know,” says Joonmyun, who turns away. “Twelve years and you’re still just a cookie-cutter dancer.”

Somewhere in the between the pianist taking a mixed drink out of a coffee mug and Luhan sinking his teeth into the cig, Yixing flinches. Maybe he stumbles. “Take a five-minute break before our last one for today. Which is...” he does a spin on his the heels, and the director points at Luhan with a wide grin. “The lil’ music box boy.”

Joonmyun heads off, and Jongin shoots up from his place. “Yixing, you were amazing.” He reaches out for the older man, but he turns away, face too pale to be healthy. Jongin, taken back, pulls back his hand immediately. “Sorry...I didn’t mean to...”

“It’s fine, sorry, Jongin-ah.” Yixing tries to seem jovial but fails miserably. He straightens up, standing a few inches shorter than Jongin. “I’m just a little tired. Yes, I’m just tired.” Yixing shrugs Jongin off for the second time, shadowing his face with his own terrible glee.

Luhan stands up with a groan, stretching out the kinks in his muscles. The cigarette that was in his hand only moments ago is tucked in the pocket of his bag, and he looks delightfully cheerful. Jongin finds it rather disturbing, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“Lu-hyung...” Jongin murmurs instead, looking over at the man who approaches them with a certain carelessness to his walks.

Yixing stiffens as Luhan approaches and tries to walk past him before Luhan latches his own firm grip on the younger man’s arm. There’s dried blood under his nails, and Jongin grimaces. “Had fun last night,” Luhan whispers, almost with a sultry appeal. “Hard to dance when you’re sore, though, huh?”

Jongin steps back, feeling as if he's eavesdropping on a conversation he has no place in. “Don’t pull this shit with me,” Yixing replies, and there’s a bite in his voice. His eyes slides over to where Jongin is, and the latter widens his eyes and looks away. _Sorry._ “Don’t make a fucking scene, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Talk to me when I get that role,” Luhan replies with just as much an appalling delight. “Because I will, _darling_.”

There’s fleeting anger that washes away with Yixing’s stoic stance, and he rips himself away from Luhan. He grabs his duffel and tears off his pointe shoes. Jongin opens his mouth to protest, maybe comfort, but Yixing hurries out of the studio with bare feet.

Yixing, they called him garden boy. And Jongin sees why—with his ankles and wrists soiled by the dirt and the flowers before his tongue always withering.

“What did you say to him?” Jongin asks meekly. “He looks sad.”

Luhan lets a chuckle run free. “I’m sure he’s overjoyed.”

“You shouldn’t have said that.”

“Why?” Luhan asks mockingly. “Why shouldn’t I?”

Jongin squirms. He’s using _that_ voice, the voice that always gets under Jongin’s skin like a bruise. “Because...Yixing looks sad, you made him _look_ sad.” He can feel Soonkyu and Sooyeon’s eyes on them, and the hair on his neck pricks. Jongin can visualize the man’s horror clearly, his eyes wide and his lips tightened to a line.

“Oh well,” Luhan shrugs, walking towards the barre to stretch for the few minutes he has left. “How _tragic._ ”

Jongin sits back down and pulls out his phone that has been buzzing against his clothes for the past half hour. Three text messages, two from Sehun and the other from...Chanyeol? Blinking rapidly, he quickly looks over Sehun’s. Two lazily typed texts, with ‘ _we’re going for drinks later,”_ and one following, ‘ _t_ _o celebrate whatever role we get’._ Jongin laughs, feeling the weight on his chest dropping, even if the burning stays.

 

5:02시간

 **Chanyeol:** You missed your check-in at 4...they say it’s because of your audition. Good luck.

 

 _Good luck,_ Jongin feels his stomach do an emboîte. No one ever says _good luck_ to a dancer. It’s comical, maybe even sarcastic. But Chanyeol isn’t a dancer, Chanyeol is just someone’s little brother, a doctor who really isn’t a doctor. Jongin smiles, liking the way _good luck_ is written on his screen. _Good luck, not break a leg, not en boca al lupo._ Just good luck.

He smiles, and it feels so nice.

 

 **Jongin:** Thank you

 

Chanyeol reminds immediately, and Jongin jolts. No one ever responds to him that quickly. Sehun often forgets and Luhan just doesn’t want to.

 

 **Chanyeol:** Already informal, I like this

 **Chanyeol:** (ﾟ⊿ﾟ) Friends now?

 

The room feels a lot warmer.

 **Jongin:** Yes

 **Jongin:** Is that fine?

 

He has to stuff his phone back into his bag when Joonmyun waltzes back into the room, now accompanied with a bottle of diluted tea swinging in his hand. Jongin feels anxious watching him, worried that it’s going to splatter across the dance floor and ruin the wood.

“Oh, where’s Yixing-ah?” Joonmyun asks, oblivious to the tension in the room. Sooyeon and Soonkyu are pressed up against each other, back to back. Their ballet shoes are off, both picking at the itchy material of their romantic tutu. Jongin pulls at his sweater instead. “Oh, never mind. Alright. Luhan?”

Luhan looks over at Joonmyun with a smile. It’s not a real one, but it’s not like it matters. “I’m ready,” he says, even if no one asked. “I’m always ready.” Joonmyun just nods, looking pleased. Jongin scoots in as close as he can, a few spots away from where Yixing had originally sat.

Jongin knows the way Luhan dances. He knows the way Minseok, Yixing, Soojung, and Sehun dance. The way they’re arched and the way Soojung rolls up on her toes. Minseok and his signature coy smile before the curtains roll up. Sehun, who keeps his face free of any emotions, just how the audience likes it.

But there's a certain _art_ to Luhan, however, like the way he pouts before getting up on the box of his pointes; lower lip all glossed and stretched with chapped marks. His fingers spread out in all the right directions, at all the right pace.

The piano starts again, for the sixth time.

It’s the way Luhan holds himself on his toes, even if Jongin knows how much it _hurts,_ like the Angel Raphael in his holiest, feathery wings in trade for painkillers. Except, Luhan is anything _but_ holy; the embodiment of spite and Marlboro’s seems to dance well on two skinny legs. He’s truly _Giselle,_ ruthlessly beautiful.

And it makes Jongin sick.

Fluttering his eyes shut, he clamps down on a gasp with a closed mouth and a bitten cheek. Clenching his teeth, he curls his fingers into the sides of his thighs, wondering if they’ll draw blood and look like Luhan’s own nails. Eyes squeezed shut, he sees small blurs of red and blue dance before his thin eyelids.

 _Open your eyes,_ a pesky voice whispers in the back of his head. _See the world as you’re fucking meant to be._

“No,” Jongin’s voice cracks under the pressure of keeping his words inaudible. He doesn’t really mind if Sooyeon looks over and frowns, and maybe make a face. _They all know you’re crazy anyways._ Jongin can hear the taps of the hard box of the pointe shoes on Luhan’s feet, and he can tell that hyung hasn’t broken them in. They’ll hurt afterward, he knows, because Luhan always cries in pain when he thinks they’re all asleep.

He opens his eyes, and laughs.

 _It’s happening again,_ he thinks weakly. The man who took him in a good few years ago seems so small, shrunken down to the size of mushrooms or capsules. Jongin looks down at his own hands, shaking violently as he takes in how _big_ his body is in this cramped, cramped studio. Except, it’s really not, and a giggle threatens to bubble past quivering lips. _Laughable, weak. Shit, a fucker. A_ _little jumpy in the head._ Jongin finds his hand gripping a fistful of his hair, and he’s only a moment away from tearing it all off his head with one clean rip.

His vision shakes and it’s all over the place. Yuji’s pink bag looks like a dollhouse prop, tiny and oh-so-delicate. He knows it’s not though, because in real life, it’s bigger than the small ballet dancer’s torso and she always has to tilt to one side to carry the oversized duffel.

_Because in real life._

Jongin’s head dares to shriek against his temple, rattling his nerves and everything dear to him. He wants to cry at how _tiny_ everything is, like the grand piano at the other end and the rows of barres up against the dirty mirror.

Staggering to his feet, he doesn’t bother grabbing his stuff. Muttering an apology that no one hears, he rushes out of the studio, gasping as he tries to dodge the things that aren’t actually there. _Funny._ The piano notes follow him as he rushes out of the room, latching onto him like leeches. He stumbles a few times, but with a trained mind, he returns back to consciousness.

Somewhere down in the hall, it’s empty. Everyone is either in the studio practicing or in auditions. He’s alone, and for once, he’s glad. His posture turning to a slouch that surely Yoora would have to reprimand him for had she been here.

The gods seem to think panicking in the halls is of a favorite past-time for Jongin. He can only wish that it was.

A migraine jabs at his brain, and he groans, falling back against the dark walls. Always, always, always.

“I left my pills in my bag, again,” Jongin says it to himself, the last few syllables of his sentence breaking off into a faltering.

“Jongin?”

He blinks, his vision wavering. He sits up wearily, and he wonders if this is the same feeling as the thorns in Yixing’s back. “Hyung?” he calls out, everything too small to make out. He sees someone at the end of the hallway, a small blur of plain colors. But at least, he recognizes the voice—like dark chocolate, or perhaps velvet. “Chanyeol-hyung?”

“Yeah,” he replies, the blur of colors moving closer to Jongin. “But why are you here? I mean, in the halls. Jongdae said you were in auditions.”

“I...” Jongin trails off, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t--well, I was. But not for me. Mine is later.” He straightens out his shoulders, trying to roll the weight off. It doesn’t work, but that’s okay. “Are you mad at me for missing my check-in?”

Chanyeol crouches down to his level, and he tries so hard not to squint to see the altered man. He recognizes the bump in the slope of his nose, and the blemish that tucked itself in between the corner of his eye and high cheek bones. “Jongin,” Chanyeol says, and it comes out serious. Jongin doesn't reply right away.

“You’re not looking so well.” There’s obvious concern in Chanyeol's voice, and Jongin likes the way it sounds.

Chanyeol presses two fingers to the side of Jongin’s neck, gentle against his pulse. The younger boy sucks in a sharp breath, taken aback by the contact of cool fingers pressed up to his skin.

“I’m just a little...I have a headache.” It comes out fragile. Chanyeol looks him over with big eyes, and Jongin feels his brain settling back to its normal activity as Chanyeol starts to look less like a tiny figurine.

“Your pulse is awfully fast, were you dancing?” Chanyeol asks, dismissing what he said.

Jongin gulps. “Yeah.”

Chanyeol runs his finger down a little bit, and Jongin sees a smile. “Cute lie. You’re not sweating, nor are you in your shoes.” He uses his other hand to tap at his feet, and Jongin’s chest sinks, feeling sheepish. Shying away from Chanyeol’s touch, he averts his eyes towards his hands.

“I just got a little stressed.” It’s not a lie, it’s not. “And overwhelmed.”

“By what?” Chanyeol asks with genuine curiosity. He settles himself down in front of Jongin comfortable, crossing his long limbs over each other with a kind face. His hair is all styled today, like a businessman, and Jongin wonders if it’s all stiff from the hair gel he uses.

 _By what,_ exactly? That’s something Jongin wants to know, too. “Everything, I guess.” He shuts his eyes for a moment and when he opens them, everything is back to normal.

_Normal. Now that’s funny._

Jongin notices the frown lines on Chanyeol deepening. “It’s no big deal,” he says quickly, hoping to lift that troublesome look off him. There are two cans of energy drinks in his hand, and something rocks against Jongin. _I must be keeping him from someone,_ he thinks.

“You should go on, hyung. I’m just going to take a rest here until I feel a little better.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Chanyeol asks cautiously. There should be something odd about this, but yet Jongin finds nothing. Chanyeol is a ‘doctor’, of course he should ask if he’s alright, _of course_. Jongin takes a little bit of time to think. Crossing one leg over the other, he tries to hold eye contact with Chanyeol, because that’s what he’s supposed to do.

“I was watching someone dance,” says Jongin, his voice tinier than a pixie’s. “And they were _beautiful._ ”

“Uh huh?” There’s something in Chanyeol’s words that coaxes Jongin out of his comfort zone, telling him that it’s okay to talk. “What about it?”

“I’ve always watched him dance.”

“Go on.”

“And...” _he made me feel terrible things._ “ Unearthly. He’s unearthly.” How do you explain that someone who you adore _terrifies_ you when they dance? Jongin just smiles up at Chanyeol, hoping the latter will accept it and dismiss everything. “Never mind, it’s silly.” Jongin buries his face into his hands, feeling the heat in his cheeks.

Something cold touches the back of Jongin’s fingers, and he jerks back. “Hey, hey now,” Chanyeol tries to soothe him when Jongin stares at him in surprised. “I was just...uh, trying to...” he falters, shaking the drink in his hand. “Give you this?” he looks a little sheepish under his glasses. Jongin makes an ‘O’ with his lips, and takes the drink with a red face.

“I thought you were meeting someone else?” Jongin looks at the other drink in Chanyeol’s hand questioningly. He wraps his hand around the skinny can, with water dews scattered across the sides.

“No,” says Chanyeol, “I usually get two cans when I drink. When you’re tall and big, one won’t suffice.”

Jongin laughs, and it feels right.

“Thank you, then.” Jongin nods towards Chanyeol, holding up the can to clink against Chanyeol’s. He winces when he pries open the top of the drink, nearly dropping it all over himself had Chanyeol not noticed the panic. A sharp pain settles in the temple over his right eye, and he clutches it with his fist.

“Are you okay?” Chanyeol holds him by the shoulders, and Jongin feels his watch digging into his shirt. “This really won’t do, God, I’m going to take you to the physio.” Jongin struggles in his grasp, but there’s not much that it does.

“No, I can’t!” Jongin says hastily. “I have my auditions.” He bites down on a squirm, and the pain rolls around from side to side. It feels like _hell,_ and Jongin finds himself whimpering against Chanyeol’s shoulder by reflex. “I just need my meds in my bag. I’m _f-fine._ ”

Chanyeol hesitates for a second, and Jongin feels him tensing up. He tries to peel away from him in the midst of his migraine, but Chanyeol lulls him into a security of peace when he shushes him. “When is your audition?” he asks, and Jongin tries not to groan again when a flare of his migraine gnaws at his skull.

“7:30...I think.”

“That’s plenty of time.” Chanyeol presses a palm to Jongin’s forehead, and he feels dazed at how _cold_ his skin is and with the lack of callouses. “I’m going to have you take a break, listen to me, alright?”

“I...”

“You can’t walk, can you?” Chanyeol asks wryly. Jongin squints at him, and he can see the latter searching his face for an answer. “You look like you have really terrible migraines.” It sounds a little dry, but it’s true.

Jongin nods.

“You can’t dance like that,” Chanyeol murmurs. “How light are you?” Jongin wonders if they’ll get in trouble for leaving the drinks on the floor. “Wait. That’s not important. Not only are you having migraines but you look _awful._ ” Chanyeol tucks in a smile to soften the remark, and Jongin knows he doesn’t really mean it.

“Sorry...”

“No apologies. Remember?”

Chanyeol wheedles the protest out Jongin and kills it with a hand over his wrist. He mutters something to the younger one about keeping his eyes closed, so that the light doesn’t provoke his migraines even further. Jongin sucks in his breath sharply, pressing shoulder to shoulder with the man next to him.

He’s never really liked the dark—not that he was ever actually _afraid_ of it. It’s alright sometimes, like the coffee Luhan drinks; black and always ripping a snarl out of him when it got too hot. The streets of home are always flickering during the witching hours, and often times, Jongin sits at the furnace to watch the dark jump back and forth.

But the dark is something he’ll never love.

He stumbles a few times, and Chanyeol is there to grab him if he does. “Don’t open your eyes, you’ll just upset your migraine again and it’ll be hell.” Jongin hears rustling, like Chanyeol’s jacket. “The lights in these halls are awfully bright. Kind of weird.”

“Do you have migraines, hyung?” Jongin asks sleepily, even if he’s not tired.

“Er, no. But I did go to medical school for nearly all of my twenties, so I would assume I know a few things or two.” Jongin giggles, letting himself slump up against the man for support. Chanyeol has a sturdy build he notice, like a rock. Nothing like a dancer—no swan feathers, dance belts, and no ballet shoes.

 _He’s not a dancer,_ and Jongin exhales with the lightest breath.

Jongin continues to blindly walk around with his arm around Chanyeol’s waist, using the taller man as a guide to the physio. “Hyung,” he mumbles. “When we get to the physio, can you get my bag? It’s in one of the studios.”

“Oh, sure.” Chanyeol hand still rests, wrapped around Jongin’s wrist. The wristwatch of his still feels cold when it brushes past his skin. “What were you doing in a studio, though? I thought your audition was later.”

“I wanted to support someone,” replies Jongin. He thinks Chanyeol nods, with the way his neck moves a little bit against Jongin’s hair. Chanyeol murmurs something before opening a door. He gives Jongin a gentle squeeze on the wrist before ushering him in.

“Let me turn off the lights.” Chanyeol unravels himself away from Jongin, and he wonders if it had always been this cold. Jongin stands there awkwardly, rolling back on his heels while swinging his arms. He’s glad, for the first time that neither Sehun nor Luhan are here with them, or they’d point out his nervous habits. But Chanyeol doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know anything at all.

Jongin hears the faint sound of a switch before Chanyeol’s voice, “You can open your eyes now.” When he does, he sees Chanyeol accompanied with a smaller lamp, the cord tangled messily around his wrist. “Er, sorry. I was trying to plug this in. I kept seeing this behind Dr. Lim’s desk so I thought I’d use it for you right now.” Jongin laughs quietly, watching the grown man struggle helplessly with the cords.

“Let me help,” Jongin offers, walking over to the poor man. “Soojung used to get tangled up with her ribbons as a kid.”

Chanyeol’s smile is dopey under the terribly dim light. “Are you comparing me to a little girl?”

Jongin flushes, keeping his eye on the cords in a knot, tangled between Chanyeol’s fingers and hand. “N-no. But, I should get this off, it’s not safe to have that around you.”

“Your migraine...”

“It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

Jongin winces, but the pain of his migraine is more so a dull throb. Looping his fingers through a bundle, he tugs the cords off Chanyeol’s arm while the latter wiggled his fingers to help. “This is embarrassing for me,” Chanyeol teases. “I was supposed to help you, but here you are, helping me.”

The cord to the lamp is strewn out against the floor, and they both look pleased. Chanyeol’s hair looks nearly black in the poor lighting, and the frames of his glasses an almost silhouette. “Where’s Jongdae-ssi and?” Jongin asks when Chanyeol shoulders past him towards the bed. “Is it just you in here?”

“Ah, yeah. It’s their dinner break right now.” Chanyeol pats the bed while straightening out the pillow. “You want to lie down? Relax a little before your auditions.” Jongin nods timorously, and it doesn’t go without notice. “What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

Jongin shakes his head quickly, hurrying over to the bed. “It’s nothing...I just, I feel bad. Shouldn’t you be at dinner right now?” he asks quietly, looking up at Chanyeol with wide eyes. He presses his shoulders down as a suggestion, and Jongin lays down on the familiar bed, his head sinking into the medical-smelling pillow.

“I usually eat dinner alone,” Chanyeol admits. “I’m not used to...uh, eating with colleagues.” Jongin nods into the pillow, tugging the blanket up to his waist. He knows that Dr. Kim had gone through a quilting phase, hence the reason why there’s an excessive number of quilts hanging around the physio for the dancers. “What about you?”

“Huh?”

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” Chanyeol clarifies, his back facing him as he rummages through a medical cabinet. “Lavender or cinnamon?”

“I haven’t...and,” Jongin sits up. “Lavender or cinnamon? Which is nicer?” The candles at home are lavender scented he thinks, except Sehun is against lighting them up because ‘ _Luhan will burn the fucking house down’._

“Have you ever tried inhaling oils for migraines? We keep some around here I think. I’ve seen Jongdae use a few drops whenever he’s nursing a headache.” Chanyeol hums, pushing aside a few bottles in the cabinet. “So, what about it Jongin? Lavender or cinnamon?”

“Lavender, then!” Jongin grins into a handful of the blanket, feeling the stress from earlier settle down to nothing but a whisper. “Thanks, hyung.”

Chanyeol chuckles, pulling out a small glass and holds it over the sink. “Working here brings me all kinds of surprises. It’s so hectic. Reminds of me a hospital.”

“Did you used to work in a hospital?” Jongin asks sleepily.

Even in the dark, he can see Chanyeol’s shoulders going rigid. The sink sputters and shuts off, and there’s nothing but the faint music playing a few halls down. “Something like that,” Chanyeol says easily, even if a little bit of his words get caught on his teeth. He turns around with a small cup of water. “Don’t _drink_ this. Okay, Jongin? Never take lavender oil orally, just, uh, take a whiff. It’ll clear you up.” Chanyeol stares at him for a good twenty second before Jongin nods vigorously.

“Thank you,” Jongin says warmly. “I’ve never used lavender for my headaches.”

“I hope you feel better. I got really worried seeing you in the hall like that.” He thinks Chanyeol is furrowing his brows, but he’s not actually sure. Jongin cautiously sniffs at the glass of lavender oil, and he feels something unbind inside of him, falling back into the bed with a sigh. “You...this happened before, right? When I met you, I mean.”

Jongin nods. “It happens a lot when I don’t manage my stress.”

“What do you do to manage your stress then?” Chanyeol asks, and Jongin feels like it’s one of those therapy sessions he took as a teenager. Except this time, he doesn’t have a notepad in hand and the therapist doesn’t get his name wrong. This time, Chanyeol isn’t a therapist, and no one is prodding his brain with irrelevant questions.

Jongin takes another whiff of lavender, and maybe he does it to avoid the question. On his bad nights, he drinks even when it’s too strong. In the summer afternoons, he walks from Yeonhui to Hongdae, and maybe bump into a few kissers and lovers whose heads are pleasantly buzzing from drugs and the aftereffect. His winter days, he dances, and somewhere along the dotted lines, he falls. “I dance,” he voices his thoughts, hoping Chanyeol will take it. “I dance and dance.”

“To relieve your stress?”

“Yeah.”

Chanyeol nods, and scoots in closer to Jongin, and crouches down. “How are you feeling now?” he asks in a whisper, reaching up to press a palm to his forehead. His hand trails down to the side of his neck, and smiles. “Your breathing seems better as well as your heart rate. It’s 5:45 right now, do you want me to wake up later?”

“Will you still be here?”

Chanyeol looks taken back. “Yes, I will, Jongin.”

“My audition is at 7:30.”

“I’ll wake you up around 6:40.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

♕♕♕

Something soft nuzzles against Jongin’s cheek. _Puppy?_ No, there’s no animals in the theatre. He whimpers at the contact, his first instinct was pull the blanket over his head. “Sorry,” a voice whispers, and the soft touch pulls away. “But it’s 6:38 and I thought that maybe you’d need two minutes to fully wake up.” A crinkling seems to be too close to his ear.

Although slow, Jongin blinks up blearily at the voice. It doesn’t take much to know that it’s Chanyeol, with his wide eyes and deep voice that challenges Siwon’s. “Good morning,” Jongin says sleepily.

“It’s night, but I’ll take it.” Chanyeol gives him a pat on the shoulder. “Wake up. I brought dinner? Sort of? I don’t know.” Jongin’s ear perks up at the sound of dinner. He straightens up and notice that there’s a lot more blankets wrapped around him than earlier.

“These blankets...”

“Ah, the others got back from dinner,” says Chanyeol. “Dr. Lim buried you in blankets, I think she adores you.” He gives a goofy smile, and Jongin finds himself liking it more than the shy eye contacts and frown. “Jongdae is here if you want him to check that ankle of yours before auditions.”

“It’s okay, my ankle isn’t so bad.”

On the table next to him, is some painkillers and a plate piled high with fruit. “Jongdae says it’s best for dancers not to eat so much before dancing, so I didn’t know what to do...” he gets cut off with an _oof!_ when Jongdae appears with his smiley eyes.

“You’re up already, Jongin!” Jongdae exclaims happily, clasping his hands together. “That migraine of yours pissing you?”

“I...I guess so,” Jongin says, unsure of what _pissing_ means. Sehun always says it, somewhere along the lines of ‘ _piss the fuck off Luhan’_ or ‘ _I’m taking a piss, don’t come in_ ’. “Did I take up a bed for too long?”

“Nah,” Jongdae waves him off. “You know your own fellows. Either gotta drag them into the check-up yourself or when they’re near death. Which is why,” he scrambles over to Jongin’s bed and squeezes his two cheeks together, despite his whine. “You’re our _favorite, favorite_ little ballet dancer. I don’t have to hunt you down, unlike those _friends_ of yours.”

“I try to get them to go,” Jongin admits. “But Lu-hyung doesn’t like being touched.”

“That’s a shocker,” Jongdae muses, letting go of Jongin’s face. “Given his...outside activities.”

Jongin stares at him, confused.

Chanyeol clears his throat. “Take the Advil after you’re done eating, okay? I know I was supposed to get your bag but I really didn’t know where that was.” He offers an apologetic look, before gesturing towards the meal. “This is my compensation?”

Jongin nods, folding up the blankets in a neat pile. “Thanks hyung.”

Jongdae scowls. “This isn’t fair! I’ve known Jongin for a good number of his teenage years! I’ve seen Jongin through his awkward pubescent transition, but he calls you _hyung_ in only a matter of time?” Jongdae shoots Chanyeol a played dirty look, snapping a hand right up in his face. “You threaten me in height and in my popularity.”

“Oh shut up, Jongdae.” Dr. Lim calls out, with a spoonful of yogurt between her teeth. “You’ve lost in the height department to several of these kids. Don’t be delusional.”

Jongdae ignores her. “Jongin-ah, repeat after me. Jongdae-hyung. Hyung, _Jong-dae-hyung_.” Jongin blinks rapidly up at the doctor, a fork in the fruit salad and unsure what to say. He is almost positive he can see Chanyeol muffling a laugh behind Jongdae.

“I can’t,” Jongin whispers. “Sorry, Jongdae-ssi.”

“Eat,” Chanyeol mouths from his seat. His glasses are off, and Jongin can see the red dents on his nose. Jongdae slumps back into his chair, typing away at his computer. Jongin chews down a few more fruits, before Chanyeol clears his throat. “So who are you trying out for?”

“The Queen, or rather, King of the Wilis,” Jongin says, brightening up. He dabs at his lips and grabs the painkiller laying on the napkin.

“Wait, you’re already done eating? That’s not enough.” Chanyeol scrunches up his face at the barely touched plate. Jongin shakes his head, downing the capsule with a gulp of water. “Do you feel better, at least?”

“I feel really good. Thank you for taking care of me.” He hops down from his bed, slipping into his shoes before bowing. “I have to go, but thank you, hyung, thank you, everyone!” he gives them a jaunty wave, bowing his way out the door.


	7. King, King, King, King

“Where the hell were you?” Sehun asks flatly. Jongin collapses onto the floor, the floor squeaking. “You could have at least _texted_ me where you were? I thought you were calling quits on the role!”

“Never,” Jongin says, throwing his head back in a heavy breath. “I got stressed. Hyung got worried and told me to rest.”

“Oh.” The wrinkle between Sehun’s brow softens. “Which hyung?”

“Chanyeol-hyung.”

“Oh, _I see._ ”

Jongin frowns at the pitch change in Sehun. “Migraines,” he continues. “They’ve been happening a lot lately.” Sehun sits down next to Jongin, ignoring the bustling number of people in audition lines. He hands him his bag stuffed with band-aids, legwarmers, and pills. “Where did you get this?”

“Luhan said you ran off. Actually no, he didn’t say that. Just grunted and threw the bag at me.” Sehun just shrugs and pats Jongin’s cheek lovingly. “You okay these days? You’ve been out of it lately. Are you sure you don’t want to go get checked up again?”

Jongin looks at the pair of beaten up ballet shoes. “N-no...” he stammers. “You know they’ll just tell me the same thing.”

“You never know.”

Except, Jongin _does_ know. ‘Too little information’ to cure a little boy’s head, even if he has outgrown his shoes and his jeans. _Little boy_ applies, _little boy_ is what they all say. Jongin just shakes his head again firmly, hoping that Sehun will just drop it.

“Were you practicing?” Jongin asks to ease the tension.

Sehun snorts unattractively. “You crazy? Like I’d jinx myself with that.” He shakes his head, and points at his shoes. “I went walking around the neighboring place with Ryeowook-hyung. You should’ve came...but I know you were sick.”

“Ryeowook-hyung doesn’t like me anyway.” Jongin stretches out his leg, working out the sores and aches in his thighs that collected from the nap. Aside from that, Jongin breathes out heavily, relaxed for the first time in days. The lavender that had teased his nose makes him smile.

“That’s not true,” Sehun protests. “You’re so loveable and sweet.”

“But I’m also weird,” he reminds him, or maybe he reminds himself. “Ah, Sehunnie, I’m feeling really good right now. I feel...” he trails off, puffing out his cheeks and raking his thoughts for the right word. “ _F_ _uzzy,_ I feel _fuzzy._ ” The quilts felt like home to him earlier, and he’ll find some time to thank Dr. Lim. He tugs on his legwarmers that stretch only a few centimeters over his knee. “Fuzzy, like these.”

The guilt on Sehun’s face seems to disperse. “And why is that?”

“Lavender.” Jongin turns towards Sehun with a question on his tongue. “Sehunnie, I like lavender. Will you buy some? I like the smell. And hyung says that it will really, _really_ make me feel better when my head hurts.”

“Oh...okay?” Sehun blinks. “Hey, Jongin? About Chanyeol—,” his words ends on a breathy note when Soojung drops down beside them, and he shuts his mouth. She waves to Jongin with a light hearted gesture, her hair falling over her face cobweb. When she leans in with a childish demeanor, Jongin sees the faint, faint marks of smeared lipstick that stains the corner of her lip.

“Hey you two,” she whispers, even if she doesn’t have to. “Good luck, huh?” Soojung sticks up her two thumbs and wiggles them around comically.

“You’re not trying out for Queen Wilis?” Jongin asks. “But you’re so pretty. _"_

“Nah,” she shakes her head. “You’ve seen Joonmyun? That nutfuck is all about screwing us over for the ballet. No way is he going to let any of us play an original role.” She cranes her neck and kicks out her feet. “Besides, I’m aiming for a different role. Minseok-ah says I can’t even play the Queen—or King—even if I tried.”

“Why?” Jongin asks, frowning. “You’re amazing and know all the steps.” When Soojung laughs, it sounds like a kitten’s squeal. She huddles herself forth, pulling her limbs over in the way that makes her look compressed and uncomfortable.

“You know the story, right? Jongin-ah?” she asks, raising her eyebrows as each of her words climbs a pitch higher. “The role is too _devastating_ for me. I don’t know, I guess I just can’t embody what Joonmyun wants.” She shrugs, not looking so hurt over it. “It creeps me out anyways. The role literally leads a group of dead people to kill other people!” she shudders, and Sehun bites down on a chuckle.

“I think it’ll be fun,” Jongin chirps. “Maybe people will finally take me seriously, too.”

Sehun swallows, his brows slanting upward and his face drops. Soojung mimics him, but looks a little more disturbed. “You can’t let yourself think like that,” Soojung says, reaching out for Jongin’s hand. He lets her curl her dainty fingers across his, the contrast of baby soft to nature-ruined skin seems to keep him at ease.

“Where’s Lu-hyung?” Jongin asks, craning to look around. “Did you see him? He said he’ll watch me try out, Lu-hyung says he’ll cheer me on.” He turns towards them with an earnest gaze, switching glances back and forth between his two friends.

Soojung had recovered from earlier and is back to her bubblegum-poppin’ self when she replies. “I saw him leave the company doors with Yixing.” She jerks her chin towards the set of doors that leads to the back way smoking area, where everyone does their dirty work. She shoots him a pitiful look. “Sorry, Jongin. I didn’t know he promised.”

Jongin keeps his face in place with tight muscles, even if his chest drops. “That’s okay, Lu always has good reasons.” He tugs at his fingers, hearing the dull _crack_ of his joints. “He always does.”

Sehun breathes out through his noise, sounding a little exasperated. “I’m going to fucking kick his ass—” Soojung pinches him, and Jongin pretends not to notice. “Forget about Luhan. You got my support, and don’t forget Soojung’s too! You’re lucky, right?”

Soojung nods fervently, her hair nearly whipping into poor Sehun’s eye. “Today has been a good, _good_ day for me. I used the practice room at home before Sooyeon could and even took the last of the grapefruit juice this morning.” Pride rubs against her words. “Heaven is on my side, and I’ll grace you with all this fortune!”

“Man, Soojung, you should’ve gone into dramatic theatre instead,” Sehun says dryly.

“Thank you,” Jongin bows his head a little bit out of thanks. A piece of his heart shrivels up out of deprivation, and he wonders if Luhan forgot, or maybe he just didn’t go.

_Of course, Luhan forgot, he wouldn’t do that to me. He has good reasons, good reasons, good reasons._

“Is it weird, though?” Jongin continues asking in between stretches. “You’re always cheering me on when we aim for the same roles.”

“It’s not a competition for me.” Sehun stands up, stretching his long arms over his hand. His shirt rises up like a taunt, exposing a faint strip of hair that streaks down his navel against alabaster skin. “We do the things we love, not the things that make us winners.”

_But I love to win._

“I love you, Sehunnie,” Jongin blurts out, throwing his arm around his best friend’s leg, nuzzling his nose against his tights. Sehun nearly loses his footing but spreads out his arm for balance. “You’re so _good_ to me.” Soojung lets out a dimpling laughter, her face flushed like peaches from giddiness. The lipstick smear is still evident around her lips, and Jongin wonders if Sehun notices.

“You love everyone,” he replies wryly, but ruffles up Jongin’s hair affectionately.

“No,” he whispers back, but his voice is so deadened against Sehun’s leg that maybe no one hears him at all. “I love so few.” When he untangles himself away from Sehun, he’s left with only the lack of ballast that rests as a lump in his throat. _Not a competition,_ Sehun’s voice rings fresh in his head.

_But what is it, then?_

Jongin rests his head against the mirror after Sehun had excused himself to go readjust his dance belt. There's a lot more dancers out for the role of King or Queen of the Wilis, the numerous bunch all clustered around their 'spot' at the barres, the rest in stretches and calling their parents and wishing for luck.

Wishing for luck, Jongin thinks, is a funny concept. They do it for tradition, do it for the superstition, and do it to look good. Yixing has never been fond of the verbal aspect of it, maybe a blow of kiss to anyone for some 'merry fortunate'. Luhan doesn't give out good lucks; the _'break a leg'_ of his sits too literal on his lips to sound like anything but a curse.

But if that's all Luhan gives, Jongin will gladly take every cursing and word he has.

He rolls down his leg warmers, the soft fabric pooling at his ankles. Grimacing at the needle points of the once pretty-bruises that kisses his knees. But now, the colors are yellowish, and Jongin wants to gag at the sight. They don't hurt, no, not anymore. Even when he digs his nails into them, they don't sting.

Jongin wonders how many more will plague his skin in the upcoming days.

Pulling his knees in so that his face is locked in between them, he breathes in and out, and recalls the scent of lavender. _Don't be stressed,_ he tells himself between brain clogs. _You'll be okay, you'll be okay._

A fleeting image of Chanyeol's smile settles itself in his thoughts, and Jongin nearly jolts at it. He likes it, admittedly, how all Chanyeol’s teeth show when he smiles. It's a shame, Jongin thinks, that Chanyeol doesn't give out those smiles as often; only the polite, sealed lips.

Leaning back, Jongin clutch at his chest, his hand slipping weakly. "Luhan," he whispers to his own ear. "Where are you when I need you?"

The reply he gets is not the one he wants, but a hush falling over everyone in the studio. Not even having to open his eyes, he can hear Joonmyun's loud dress shoes and someone else. Sojin?

Jongin sits up abruptly, blinking rapidly to clear his vision and hopefully his thoughts.

Joonmyun hands Sojin the clipboard, a drink of some sort wedged between his hands and a bandaged knuckle. That wasn't there before, a little voice peeps from Jongin's head, and he shuts it down with a shake.

"A beautiful turn-up for the Wilis King or Queen!" he exclaims, his face bearing the Angel Raphael like an accessory. "Oh, I'm delighted. So many pretty faces here." Joonmyun lets his eyes travel around the room, and for a moment,m his eyes linger on Jongin.

All the girls and boys at the barres hurry over to the center to be seated, like toddlers. It vaguely reminds Jongin of the Alice in Wonderland auditions, except with new faces and new positions. Jongin joins the rest, scooting closer to them so it looks like he's not alone.

Sehun presses his sides next to him, but he doesn't say anything. Jongin taps his hand with his wrist, shooting him a smile that has been used too often today.

 _"Good luck,"_ Jongin mouths, too afraid to say it.

(Too afraid to let it happen)

Joonmyun clears his throat and ushers Sojin to the front with a clipboard. "I-I..." Sojin stammers, her nose red and looking runny. "I will be here to assist you all in embodying the role of the Wilis. I am a f-former Queen of the Wilis in 2008. I hope to see the new dancer be a wonderful addition to t-the line."

Joonmyun snakes an arm around her tiny waist. "Sojin was a wonderful Queen when she danced." Sojin bites down on her lip, her windbreaker rubbing up against Joonmyun's dress shirt. "I hope to see all my darlings yield the same effects Sojin laid out on the stage."

Something in him breaks off like a warning, telling him to heed every word and every lip curve Joonmyun puts out.

It feels dangerous too, but no one has to know that.

 

 

♕♕♕

“Weak, weak, weak!” Joonmyun cries out with a tired voice. “Give me more ache in your bones. Myrtha has no soul—I want you to _dance like you have nothing left._ ” He walks around the front with careful stepping, as if he is dancing himself. “Lift your arms to shoulder height, you are _dead,_ do not act as if you are.”

The girl trying out is near tears, in between spins she gasps out a choked whimper, her arms nearly giving out when she does a leap. Jongin sucks in a sharp breath, watching how red blooms across her cheeks and nose.

“You’re not giving me enough emotions,” Joonmyun says, eerily calm. The vein that throbs thickly at the forehead speaks otherwise, though. “Sojin, do you think she’s sad enough?” he asks, though not facing the former star. He grabs the girl by the forearm, and she topples over, barely saving herself from going down from en pointe.

“Director, I’m sorry—”

“I want you sad,” he says, his face not giving any signs of empathy. “Dance like you’re high on stimulants because no one loves you, and loosen up because there’s no _love_ in you.”

She swallows, her lower lip quivering. “Should I-I go again? I’ll dance like you want me to, I’ll do it again.”

Joonmyun lets go, stuffing his hands in his pocket. “I’ve seen enough.” He snaps his two fingers towards Sojin, who quickly scribbles the girl’s name off. “Look here, sweet tarts. There’s still seven of you left and if you think you can dance like a tragedy, stay. If you can’t, look into other roles by tomorrow.”

The remaining all avert their eyes, unwilling to be the first to leave.

“Come on now,” he coaxes, and Jongin finds himself staring at a stranger. No, he thinks, this is not the Joonmyun that held his baby-skin hands and welcomed him into a building that promised him dreams and art. This is not the Joonmyun that whispered over a glass of wine that his _mental disorder_ won’t hinder his love for ballet so much. “I want to go home and drink myself into hell as much as the next person, so let’s cut ourselves some time-wasters, huh?”

Three people leave, their bags hitting against their back as they hurried out without a second glance.

Sehun looks back at Jongin with a disturbed look. There’s four people left—the other two spots belonging to a soloist and a corps’ boy. Sojin stares at the now closed door with a nostalgic look that mingles with wist. “So just four?” Joonmyun asks again, his smile wide as he taps his foot against the floor. “Brilliant, we’ll be done in a good hour.”

Sojin scrawls out a few more names. her pen harsh and unforgiving against the four others’ names. “Kim Jongin?” At that, Joonmyun perks up.

Jongin swallows a lump that has been clinging to his throat, except it doesn’t go away. Sehun tugs on his sleeve, as if it is a silent salute. He’s too afraid to look behind at his friend; afraid to jinx himself any further. “Yes,” he calls out, thankful that his voice doesn’t shake.

“Okay,” Sojin murmurs, eyeing him up and down. “You are aware of the contemporary dance version of the Wilis dance?” Jongin nods. “Okay, that’s good. Then I want you to go to the center, yes, right there.” The pianist in the corner seems too jittery, but he readies himself for the same piece.

Jongin hurries to the center, feeling the eyes of the rest of the souls in the room. _Think, Jongin, think. This is the stage, this is yours, yours, yours, yours._ Joonmyun leans against the barres, arms crossed and one leg over the other.

“Envision the wilis around you Mryth,” Joonmyun murmurs, watching Jongin holding himself at the waist. “Give them time to cry through their dance before you begin yours.”

Jongin waits.

“Now, you may dance.”

Something rips itself away from Jongin, like a sense of all consciousness. The fear of fears—for Todd to strike against his heart stops lingering in him, his ballet shoes padding across the floor as if he truly _is_ the King of Wilis. In between the brisé, there is a break in between his breathing and his arms. The migraine episode he suffered earlier, the scent of lavender and the lack of Luhan lodges themselves into Jongin’s back, and he arches his entire spine. The only thing missing to make the entire thing lewd is a cry, or a whimper.

The piano keys slam against Jongin’s steps, and in his mind, the wilis surrounding him has given him a pathway, given the _King_ a place to dance a heartbreak out.

_And what is a heartbreak, Jongin?_

The music stops, but Jongin’s body doesn’t give in to the empty sounds. He spins on autopilot, honing his technique to be just good enough. Because good enough is synonymous for _best,_ but no one talks about that.

“Stop.”

He doesn’t.

“Jongin, cutie, that’s enough.”

He gasps, opening his eyes. His footing under his stumbling, his back bending forward to keep himself from looking bad. Jongin looks up with wavering eyes, up at Joonmyun and his wrinkled dress shirt one could mistake for Angel’s wear.

“I...” Jongin starts, voice weaker than anything in this room. Maybe his heart can challenge that.

“Sit down,” Joonmyun says quietly. “And take a one for a drink.”

Jongin widens his eyes, his lips parted in a struggle to not cry. _You didn’t do well, you’re terrible, fucked up, terrible, you’re nothing,_ a voice stabs him over and over with the same knife that twists itself in his gut. His body acts without the brain’s consent, making him sit down next to Sehun who tries to shake him out of it.

“Oh Sehun?” Sojin’s voice disrupts them both, and Sehun hesitates.

“Go on,” Jongin whispers. “I’m just tired.”

Joonmyun eyes the exchange between a boy who looks ready to cry and the other male who has conflict coursing through his veins. Sehun peels himself away with Jongin, whispering something along the lines of ‘ _I love you, it’s okay._ ’

Sehun nods to every Joonmyun says, because everything coming out of the latter’s mouth is second-handed and overused.

 

 

♕♕♕

“Jongin?”

Joonmyun’s voice stops him in his track. Sehun is bearing both their duffel bags on his shoulders, his hand clutched tight in Jongin’s. Sehun frowns, looking between Joonmyun and Jongin. The director dismisses Sojin with a short glance, the girl hurrying out of the studio without hesitation.

“Yes?” Jongin answers in a small voice, tightening his hold on Sehun. The latter looks over with a tense face.

“I need to speak with you,” Joonmyun continues, kicking an emptied water bottle to the side. “Alone.”

Jongin lets go of Sehun’s hand reluctantly, wanting nothing more than to curl up at home in Luhan’s bed. “Okay,” he says, waving to Sehun. “Will you wait for me in the shower rooms?”

“Uh huh,” Sehun points to Jongin’s bag. “You want me to put away your things? Tomorrow is laundry day.” Jongin nods and Sehun shrugs on both of their bags for a firmer grip. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

When the doors slam shut, it’s just Jongin and Joonmyun. Jongin wraps his arms around himself, the fleece of his not enough to armor himself against the cold. Joonmyun grins, pulling himself away from the barres and in three quick strides, he stands in front of Jongin, a few centimeters shorter.

“You look nervous,” he muses. “Are you really anxious? I thought I was a father figure to you.” Joonmyun reaches up and cups Jongin’s cheeks. His hands are cold, and Jongin wonders if everyone’s hands are always like that. Freezing to the touch; unforgiving.

“I messed up,” Jongin says with a throaty voice. Somehow, Joonmyun manages to ease the younger man to his knees, and he sits down next to him, too. Joonmyun buries his hand into Jongin’s hair, almost like the way Luhan does with Jongin when he’s full of glee.

“And what made you think that?” he coos, lulling Jongin into a mind-numbing relaxation. “Was there any indication or was it a gut feeling?”

“A gut,” Jongin says meekly. “And you didn’t say anything so I thought—”

“I want you to dance again for me.”

Jongin blinks. “E-excuse me?”

“Now now,” Joonmyun says in a sing-song voice. “You’re not having a _Todd_ at the moment, are you? You can hear me perfectly, right?” Jongin feels as if something has nipped at his chest before claws pulled out. Joonmyun chuckles, his laughter catching onto his teeth and making a whistling-effect. “Assuming by your face I can tell that you’re not.”

“Dance?” Jongin asks. “Dance what?”

“The scene you tried out for. The Wilis scene.”

“But I...” he trails off. “There’s no music.”

Joonmyun shrugs. “Don’t be like that, Jongin-ah. I know you can dance without music. I’ve seen you here until 11 PM sometimes, just dancing.” Jongin blushes at that, folding his limbs in. “Besides, the music doesn’t account for anything. It’s your body, Jongin.”

 _Your body,_ it sounds as funny as it’s supposed to be. It’s never really Jongin’s body, not in this lifetime.

“What does this mean, though?” Jongin asks, feeling guilty for bombarding the director with question after question.

“It means I want you to dance, Jongin.”

Finally getting it, Jongin hurries to the barres for quick plies. Done with haste, but it gets the job down. He looks over at Joonmyun for approval, who is sprawled across the floor but still manages to hold himself up with an elegance that only Sooyeon can rival.

Stripping himself of his legwarmers and fleece, Jongin feels naked even when he’s not. “Remember Jonginnie,” Joonmyun says, his words slippery like rainfall during the spring seasons. “Dance like you’re crying. I want you depressed.”

Okay.

Jongin pulls himself up into the stance he'd mimicked at least eighteen times today during auditions. Tension unravels itself from his brittle bones and surges across his body, with each toe pointed as can be without going into pointe. _I am the King, I am the King of the Wilis, I am Myrth and everything Myrth is._

_I am king, king, king, king, king, king, king, king, king king king king king—_

Tears pricks at his eyes, and he wonders, when did crying hurt so much? But it’s not like God will give an answer. God is slow these days.

This time, the music doesn’t stop because there is none, but Joonmyun clearing his throat is just as jarring. Jongin holds himself down firmly this time, not wanting to embarrass himself. Joonmyun is on his feet now, his shiny shoes squeaking against the floor.

“Do you know what a heartbreak is?” Joonmyun asks after Jongin has caught his breath.

A heartbreak. Yes, Jongin knows. The nights Luhan spends drinking and cursing at him, Jongin dubs those ‘heartbreaks’. Sehun and his smile whittles down to a cry when his brother calls and he forgets to pick up—usually another year past before Jongin hears the sobs coming from the top of the bunk bed.

Even when Luhan kisses someone else—someone _not_ Jongin—his heart feels heavy, too.

“Yes,” says Jongin.

Joonmyun laughs. “Liar,” he whistles. “You’ve always been a favorite of mine, Jongin. I’ve loved the way you carried yourself ever since you switch from the Seoul Ballet Academy. So sweet and vulnerable. You’re like a _child._ ” Jongin blinks in silence, unsure if he should take it as an insult or a flattery. “But you’re also sad.”

“Director...”

“You grabbed me with your small hands as a teenager, eyes _so_ bright and kind.” Joonmyun continues without missing a beat. “But the way you grabbed me intrigued me.” Jongin moves back a step when Joonmyun takes a short advance. “I know about your abandonment issues. Tragic, really.”

“I’m sorry,” Jongin whispers. “I didn’t mean to have them, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, no.” Joonmyun shakes his head. “I love them. Absolutely adore them. Why, you ask? Because you’re perfect, no, brilliant for the role!” he exclaims, grabbing Jongin by the chin with such a gentleness that startles the young one. “I believe you would be _devastatingly beautiful_ for the role.”

Jongin pulls away out of surprise, stumbling in a way that puts a shame to ballet. He grabs a hold of himself, staring wide eyed at Joonmyun. “What?”

It’s Joonmyun’s turn to look incredulous. “Don’t you want the part?”

“I do! I really do!” Jongin says quickly. “But there were many better dancers and I don’t...” _want to be chosen out of favoritism._

“You weren’t chosen because you’re my favorite.” Joonmyun seems to have read his mind. “But because you’re so tragic and I so, so love that about you. We need that for the Queen—I mean, King of the Wilis.”

“So you really mean it?”

“I’m a bastard, Jongin.” Joonmyun fixes the top button of his shirt. “But I’m not a liar.” He finds amusement in Jongin’s shock. Without saying anything, he cradles the boy’s hand in his, pressing a chaste kiss between the knuckle and wrist.

“So this means...” Jongin chokes on his words. “That I’m the King of the Wilis?”

“Yes,” Joonmyun says, tugging on the hem of Jongin’s shirt. “You are _most definitely king._ ”

Jongin leaves the studio room feeling light headed, stumbling over and over when his feet cross over one another. Jongin replays Joonmyun’s last words in his mind, until the meaning behind them completely unhinge away. He finds himself in the shower rooms, where Sehun is shaking his leg over the bench. His best friend looks up, sighing of relief. “Hey, Jongin-ah. I reserved a shower spot for you. What happened? Did Joonmyun yell at you?”

“No,” Jongin says in a daze. “He didn’t yell at me at all.”

“Okay...” Sehun says dubiously. “We’re going to shower, and be quick, too! We’re going out for drinks in _celebration_ of surviving the rounds of auditions. We all know how _terrifying_ Joonmyun can be.” He stages a shudder, ushering Jongin into the shower.

Jongin bites his lips, a bad habit that Minseok always scolds him about. Should he tell Sehun about making it to the role? Would Sehun be mad at him—what if Sehun-ah abandons Jongin? Shaking his head no, no, he hurries into the shower, wanting the hot water to strip him of all his bad thoughts.

 _I’m king,_ and his chest feels like it’s going to burst.

 

 

♕♕♕

“You look happy.”

Yixing has a lollipop in his mouth, his lips all purple from it. His hair is disheveled, his eyes hooded in the way that it normally is in the mornings. Except it’s night, and he just looks jagged. Jongin pauses in his tracks, the towel hanging over his shoulder and dampening his shirt. “It’s just the shower heat, hyung.” Jongin presses both palms to his cheeks, hoping to cool it down. “It’s nothing.”

“I don’t know,” he says, pulling the lollipop out like it’s a cig. “Normally, people glow like that when they’ve just had godly sex. But sweet Jongin is still a _virgin,_ so can’t be.” Yixing quirks a smile that looks superficial at the corners. “Why, _are_ you? Did Luhan fuck you raw already? Barely the youthful age of twenty.”

“N-no!” Jongin nearly yells, gripping onto the towel. “Don’t talk about Lu like that. Lu...Lu hasn’t _touched_ me like that.” He tugs on his shirt, desperate to cover himself fully even when he’s already clothed. Yixing’s eyes flickers and he turns away, lollipop still in mouth.

“How was I?” Yixing asks, his features softening. He looks like himself again, whatever that means. “During the Giselle try-outs?”

“Amazing,” Jongin mutters. He keeps his eyes trained onto his shoes, the steam of the showers behind him coating the back of his neck. “Unearthly. You were wonderful, Yixing-hyung.”

“Was I?” Yixing asks sadly. The shower rooms are empty, and it’s just Yixing and him. “Don’t you think your Luhan was better, though?”

_Luhan is better than everyone._

“Don’t say that,” Jongin says. “You’re both equals.” Yixing makes a popping sound with one last lick. His cheeks are more pronounce when he does so, his angular face structured by himself. Even he had a say in how pale he would be, and how little he’d eat to get to that. It’s hauntingly beautiful, _yes,_ Luhan and Yixing are both equals.

“Sehun is waiting for you,” Yixing says, his voice withering. The subtle rosiness of his cheeks seems to give away his inebriated state. “Sorry for my outburst, Jongin. That was out of character.”

Jongin nods hesitantly, mumbling a ‘good night, hyung’. He grabs his bag and hurries down the hall, the heat never leaving his neck or hands.

He finds Sehun leaning against the door, oblivious to the cold. “Sehun!” Jongin fusses, grabbing his own jacket from his bag and wraps it around his neck. “It’s cold, you’ll get sick and I’ll be sad and—” Sehun shushes him with his thumbs brushing at the corners of his lips. Sehun smiles brightly, his hair tousled and damped from the shower.

“I have a good immune system Jongin,” he reminds him. Sehun turns back to his phone. “Do you want to go for drinks, though?”

“With who?” Jongin asks.

“Yoora,” Sehun says cheekily. “She’s been more adoring than ever nowadays and I want to treat her to some quality drinks—like a man.”

Jongin reaches over to fix his friend’s hair, tugging at the strands so he doesn’t look so lazy. “Does Yoora-noona see you as a man, Sehun-ah? She’s eleven years older,” Jongin giggles at Sehun’s face, which had animatedly turned into bemusement.

“Age doesn’t matter!” Sehun exclaims, waving his phone around. “See, she sends me _hearts._ She texts me good morning messages, _and_ she sends me her no-makeup photos.”

Jongin rocks back and forth on his heels. “Is Yoora-noona your lover?” he asks curiously. “Do you love her?”

Sehun chokes on his spit. “Jongin!” he hushes, grabbing him by the arm. “Don’t say weird things.”

“But she sends you hearts—”

Sehun makes a gesture for Jongin to lower his voice. “It’s a different kind of love, Jongin. You know, it’s not _romantic._ ”

Jongin shuffles his feet, the bag on his shoulders significantly less heavy than it should be. Though his heart is full of giddiness and glee, he keeps a calm face so Sehun doesn’t ask. “I thought all loves were the same,” he mumbles. “Like our love.”

Sehun’s face softens, and a few years sheds off his face when his forehead holds no more wrinkles. “We’re not romantic, though, Jongin-ah. I love you but I don’t, uh, _love_ love you. I thought you knew that?” he reaches for Jongin’s ear and tugs it, running his thumb over the soft honey skin. “What’s the word I'm looking for? Platonic. I love you Jongin, but in a brotherly way.”

Jongin nods slowly, absorbing it all. “What about me and Lu-hyung? What’s our love?”

Sehun’s face turns a little sour. He looks as if he’s about to say something nasty or appalling to Jongin’s ears, but he clamps on it. Instead, he keeps himself at bay. “Uh...what do you feel for Luhan?” he asks, looking sick.

Jongin seems not to notice. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I like his smiles. And his smoky breath. Oh, and when he holds me...it...it feel nice.”

Sehun turns his head elsewhere. “Do you find that romantic?”

“I don’t know.”

They don’t say any more, partially because Sehun tries to distract himself by tapping on the glass, his phone turned off. Jongin feels the strange shift in atmosphere is his faulr, even if he can’t explain why. Joonmyun’s words bounced off his skull, and he waits and waits, but not sure for who.

Sehun’s phone rings, setting them both off. “Sorry,” Sehun mutters hastily, swiping over and pressing it close to his ear. “Noona? Huh? Oh, yeah, I think he’s still at the company. Why? Oh. You want him...ah, okay. I will then. What should I say? Okay, okay. What? Of course I missed you noona. The company today was _very_ stressful. I know, I know, okay, bye.”

“Noona?” Jongin echoes. “Is that Yoora-noona?”

“Uh huh.” Sehun tucks his phone into his pocket and swings his bag around. “Yoora wants us to take her brother with us. Chanyeol, I mean. We’re heading out to the bar in Hongdae, because you know, the only one in Yeonhui is reserved for...”

“...The elders on paycheck day,” Jongin finishes for him. “Really? Hyung is going to join us?” Sehun shrugs, and Jongin beams.

“His sister probably already texted him, so all we have to do is wait.”

“A while ago,” Jongin brings up, his voice slow and cautious. “You said her brother was crazy.”

 _Crazy,_ it hurts to say that.

Sehun looks a little nervous. “I mean, Yoora never really talked about him, she just mentions a few things and there. You wouldn’t even think she had a little brother. Now she seems to act as if Chanyeol has been in Seoul all this time, and there are just rumors. You wouldn’t get it if I said them, they’re probably all silly, too.”

“What do you...”

A stumbling giant catches their attention with his loud footsteps. It can’t be helped, with the whole marble flooring. “Noona, no, noona! Stop yelling into my ear, oh my God. I really shouldn’t.” Sehun watches him with amusement, and Jongin stares at him in a daze. “Noona, _you_ can go drink and I’ll go home—stop yelling!”

Chanyeol nearly drops his phone when Jongin bursts into a fit of giggles, his glasses crooked and his scarf barely holds up against his neck. His appearance remains the same, crooked glasses that are an oddity to his clean face and a pea coat decorating his long body. His cheeks are flushed like they always are, and they still hear Yoora’s voice through the phone.

“I should really go home,” Chanyeol murmurs into the phone, his voice soft but Jongin still hears it. His eyes levels themselves on the latter, an easy gaze and oh so kind. “Noona, you can go drinking without me.”

“You should go,” Jongin mouths. Sehun is texting rapidly, most likely to Yoora as well. He takes a few steps closer to Chanyeol, trying to welcome the man to a night of bars and overpriced drinks. “It’ll be fun.”

Chanyeol pulls the phone away from his ear and covers it with his hand. “Should you dancers be drinking, though?” he asks carefully. “I thought most ballet dancers don’t drink much alcohol.”

Sehun doesn’t look up from his phone. “We’re not supposed to, but we all end up doing it anyways.” He says it all without even a glance. “Instructors, corps, soloists, principals...we all get a _little_ drunk sometimes. Besides, we’re going to celebrate! We’re getting roles, whatever they are. You should come.”

Chanyeol stuffs his phone into his pocket awkwardly. “My sister is going to be there, right?”

“Uh huh,” Sehun says gleefully. “Yoora- _noooooonaaaa._ ” He has a kitten-like face to him, clutching the phone close to his chest with a purr.

“I...”

Jongin grabs Chanyeol’s wrist, cradling it like it’s fragile. “Will you come?” he asks quietly. “I’m afraid to drink, but I want to.” Admitting it feels weird, like he shouldn’t have to say but ended up anyways. “I think it would make me feel better if you’re there. You said you can hold your drinks well, right? Sehunnie can’t.”

“Really?” Chanyeol asks, his shoulders relaxing. “You want me to go with you? But I’m not that good with my drinks.”

“That’s fine.” Jongin nods excitedly. “I have something to tell you, too!”

Though rather incredulous, Chanyeol nods. He opens his mouth to say something when Jongdae rushes out of the door with a barely closed bag. Chanyeol turns towards him abruptly, Jongin’s hand still clutching his. Neither of them, though, seems to mind. “Chanyeol, and Jongin-ah, hello!” he greets hastily. If he notices the hands, he doesn’t say anything. “I’d love to stay and chat, but my car has been towed and oh gosh.”

Chanyeol stares wide-eyed. “How?”

Jongdae groans into his hands, his scarf barely tied around his neck. “Someone took my parking spot this morning and I had no choice but to park elsewhere. But...” he shakes his head, shrugging into his coat. “I should go, see you guys! Stay in good health!”

“Okay,” Sehun shouts even if he doesn’t have to. “We’re going to Hongdae because Yoora can walk there easily. It’s going to be a bar, _not,_ a club. Your sister is catering to your club dislikes.” Sehun winks at Chanyeol, who laughs weakly.

“To the subway!” Jongin exclaims, beaming. He tugs Chanyeol along, who moves in sync beside him.

 

 

♕♕♕

Chanyeol sits a little farther away than the rest.

Sehun leans closer to Jongin, lips close to his ears. “What’s he doing?” he asks, squinting his eyes at the older man.

“I don’t know,” Jongin frowning. _Am I bad company?_ he wonders, and a bit of his heart goes soft. Scooting in closer to Chanyeol, the latter seems surprised when Jongin taps his shoulders. “Hey,” he says with the quietest of tones. He looks up to a pair of dark brown eyes, lashes fluttering quickly. “Are you okay, hyung? I hope you’re not uncomfortable.”

“I...no,” Chanyeol says, sighing. He hugs his bag closer to his chest and shuts his eyes. “It’s just that...I’m not really used to going out with friends. My sister always is dragging me to her bars and groups of friends but I never really—,”

“—fit in?”

“Yeah.”

Jongin looks straight ahead, at a man who looks ready to drop his tablet out of his sleeping state. Sehun is occupied with his music, foot tapping to a beat from his earphones. “It must be a change, huh, hyung? You had to leave all your friends in Busan for Seoul.” Jongin looks down at his hands sadly, his shoulders feeling heavy for the sake of his hyung. “I’m sorry.”

“I really didn’t have friends in Busan,” Chanyeol admits wryly. “I had one. And another in Hongdae.”

“Who’s the Hongdae friend?” Jongin asks, intrigued. “We’re going to Hongdae right now! Will you meet him?”

Chanyeol laughs, and he thinks a bit of the elder’s sadness has gone astray. “I haven’t talked to this friend in a while. He’s busy, I’m busy. But we’re friends. His name is Baekhyun, and he’s a year younger than me.” Jongin tries the name out in his head. _Baekhyun, Baek-hyun._

“What does he do?” Jongin asks curiously. “Is he a medic-guy like you?” It’s hard not to use the word _doctor._

Chanyeol snorts, and quickly tries to cover himself. But one a pleased look from Jongin settles him right back into his comfort zone. “He’s a freelance artist last time I checked. He kind of reminds me of your friend Sehun.”

“Really?” Jongin asks, his voice a little bit higher and pleasant. “I like Sehun-ah. Does this mean I’ll like your friend Baekhyun-ssi? Will he like me?”

“Baekhyun has endured all of me and he’s still here.” Chanyeol takes off his glasses and wipes them down with his scarf. “I’m sure everyone who has met you loved you.” Jongin sits up straight, not wanting to crush the other man by leaning on him. Fixing his own jacket, he turns to Chanyeol.

“The stop for Hongdae is here,” Jongin reminds him, getting ready to get up.

They follow Sehun off the train, who is busy texting Chanyeol’s sister again. “I didn’t even know my sister was seeing someone, let alone it being Sehun.” It’s Jongin’s turn to chuckle. They’re walking side by side, arms brushing arms. The streets of Hongdae are lit up and bustling with young people. The street vendors dot the path crowded with late-night performers and high school kids. It’s funny to think, if they were to walk past downtown Hongdae and into Yeonhui, it would be quiet and dark, except for the sole soju tent meant for loners.

“Yoora says she’s in Vinyl,” Sehun says, and his words are breathy. “Man, Chanyeol-hyung! Your sister has great taste in hole-in-the-wall bars.” He slows down his steps to match the other two, swinging his arms back and forth like a child.

“Well, noona does drink a lot.” Chanyeol looks over at Sehun with a raised eyebrow. “Do people normally give their sisters’ boyfriends a lecture or something? I’m not sure really.”

Sehun looks a tad embarrassed, but Jongin knows the lighting from the windows is covering him. “We’re not official or anything,” he says in a low voice. “I’m just seeing your sister, she’s really nice. Really exciting, too.”

“She takes after my mom,” Chanyeol supplies. He turns his head back to the front. “She got all the good traits.”

Jongin turns to disagree when a boy on his bicycle swerves, his handle hitting into the back of Jongin’s arm. “Sorry sir!” the boy frantically blurts out, hurrying past him on a green bike. Jongin mumbles an ‘ _it’s okay’_ even if he can’t hear him.

“Jonginnie!” Sehun exclaims, rushing over to Jongin’s side. “Ah, are you okay? Hongdae is always so fucking busy I’m surprised people aren’t dying in this damn place.” He grabs his arm and ushers him to pull up his sleeve.

“I’m okay!” Jongin chirps, pulling his arm away and rubs at it. “It’s nothing. Just a bump.”

Chanyeol stops abruptly, his shoulders shadowing Jongin’s view. He frowns, reaching out for his arm. “It might bruise,” he says quietly. “That handlebar hit you hard.”

“I always get bruises, remember?” Jongin tries to joke it off, hurrying to the front. “We shouldn’t keep noona waiting, she’ll get drunk all on her own then.”

“But...”

“It’s fine, you two!” Jongin readjusts the straps on his bag. “You’re always babying me as if I never get hurt. I always do, a bruise won’t bother me.”

It seems to shut them both up, even if it makes Jongin feel bad.

Vinyl _is_ a hole-in-the-wall, so to speak. Sixteen-year-old Jongin had stumbled into the place with Sehun under his arms. No IDs, no lying, no pretending to be a twenty-something-year-old when really they’re just bad kids stripped of a high school uniform. Maybe his favorite part is drinking mixed drinks out of a bag, or the low lights that hide all of his features.

They spot Yoora in one of the seats, sloshing a bag back and forth with a glint to her eyes. Jongin can see under the poor lighting that she’s wearing heels, looking out of place in a dingy bar. She waves to them excitedly, her teeth bright against her pretty lipstick when she smiles. “Sehun-ah! Jongin, oh, and my _little, little_ brother!” she squeals delightfully, taking another sip out of her IV-bag-looking drink.

They sit down, and Sehun is the first to notice the two other emptied bags. “You already drank two?” he asks, shocked. “Yoora! You get drunk much too easily.”

Chanyeol sits down beside his sister, who makes a face and pushes him with her shoulder. “Ahhh, Chanyeol! I want to sit with Sehunnie.” She pouts, and beckons Sehun to come over with a finger. “Go sit with Jonginnie. You two look so cozy together, anyways.”

“Noona.”

Sehun snuggles close to Yoora’s side. Chanyeol sighs and sits right next to Jongin, who is fiddling away at his sleeves awkwardly. “Sorry you have to sit with me?” he tries, looking up at him with big eyes.

“N-no it’s not like that!” Chanyeol says quickly, looking shocked. “It’s just...I feel the need to be a protective brother?”

“Don’t bother,” Yoora says, running her long nails through Sehun’s hair. He looks like a kitten, all curled up close to her and buried in her neck. “Sehun is so harmless. Hey little brother, maybe you should get someone, too.” She winks, and presses a kiss to Sehun’s forehead. “Look at him, he’s so tall and _so_ manly but aw, so cute.”

Jongin giggles.

Chanyeol just takes a little snack out of the bowl of cashews. “Don’t worry, Sehun is a good guy,” Jongin whispers. He stands up and brushes off imaginary dust. “I’m going to get a drink!” he declares and looks at Sehun with a dubious look. “I...Sehun, can you help me order?”

“Sure—” he stands up but Yoora tightens her arms around him and makes her eyes wide. “Yoora...”

“I want to stay with my Sehunnie.” Yoora gives Chanyeol a pointed look. “Go be a gentleman and help Jongin order.” She kicks at her brother’s shin, who winces and hobbles over to Jongin.

“You don’t order drinks alone?” Chanyeol asks. Jongin stares at him pitifully, the guilt just piling on and on. “It’s okay, my sister is always like this.” They head over to the area, three people hunched over the bar with a drink mostly half-emptied.

“I’m afraid if I order the wrong thing, then it’ll hurt my head in the morning.” Jongin heaves himself onto one of the stools. “Sehun or Lu-hyung usually orders for me. I don’t trust myself with alcohol.”

“Ah,” Chanyeol hums. “I’ll get you a soda.”

“Hyung!”

Chanyeol reaches over and ruffles a tuft of Jongin’s hair. It seems so _intimate,_ but the friendly look in Chanyeol says otherwise. “In the few weeks I’ve known you, you seem very sweet and kind. I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of alcohol running through your system.”

A fizzy drink slides to Jongin, who grabs a hold of it without much protest. Secretly, he’s glad he doesn’t have to drink—it means few episodes and Todd episodes. “Do you really think that?” Jongin asks, biting the straw.

“Yes,” he replies warmly. A mixed drink of some kind lands in Chanyeol’s grasp. “You said you wanted to tell me something earlier. What is it?” Under the pinkish lights, Chanyeol looks as if he were only a college student, should anyone else ignore his dress shoes and collared shirt.

“Oh!” Jongin turns so that his body faces him. “It’s about my part for the dance.” He’s clapping so gleefully that his drink nearly spills, Chanyeol reaching over to hold his elbow so that it doesn’t knock it over. Jongin winces at the contact of his bruise.

“What about it?”

“I got the part,” he whispers, even if Sehun won’t hear him. “Joonmyun says I’m the King of Wilis.” It feels such as weird saying it as it is thinking about it, and he can’t help but feel as if he’s boasting.

But Chanyeol looks genuinely happy, grabbing both of Jongin’s hands in a sweet gesture. “Really! I’m so happy for you!” he says, shooting that perfect smile of his. Jongin grins, staring at the wide, puppy eyes of the elder. It’s almost hard to think that there are nine years between the two, but it’s the same with Luhan. “You’ve been working hard for it, I can tell. With the bruises you keep getting near your ankles.”

Jongin looks sheepish. “I’m sorry about that.”

“No apologies.”

“Oh...right.” Jongin pulls his hands away from Chanyeol, afraid they’ll get sweaty. “I’m afraid, though.”

“Of what?” Chanyeol asks, swirling his drink around with his straw. He had shrugged off his jacket, his shoulders even broader. “Oh, nervous to play a big role?”

“That too.” Jongin shrugs, sipping more of his cola. “But Sehun auditioned for the same role, and I don’t want him to hate me.” His chest feels lighter when the words roll off his weight, but the heavy eyes of Chanyeol seem to keep him still in his place.

_He’ll hate me, and I’m scared. Sehun-ah._

“He won’t hate you,” Chanyeol says, his brows softening. “Sehun is your best friend. He’s not going to hate you for something like that. I don’t think Sehun is that kind of person.”

“Yeah, but...” Jongin looks away. “I have so few friends, and I’m scared to hurt a single one of them.”

“I don’t understand,” he murmurs, and Jongin is surprised at how fragile he sounds. His drink has already gotten to his head, his cheeks flushed dramatically under the lights and the influence. Jongin can hear the giggles shared between Sehun and Yoora from behind. “You’re so child-like.”

Jongin makes a big slurping sound with his coke. “What does that mean, hyung?”

“Er, it means you’re,” Chanyeol pauses, clearing his throat. “You’re already so young but you’re also very _pure,_ I think. It’s not a bad thing! Don’t misinterpret, I’m just in awe at how sweet you are.” Jongin nods in understanding.

“Lu sometimes says that about me. He says that I’m his _worship._ ” Jongin just shrugs, not noticing the disturbed glance from Chanyeol. “Lu-hyung says I’m like that, too. What’s a worship, though? I’ve asked but he always gives me different answers.”

“It’s a...it’s usually a religious term.”

“Oh. I’m Christian.”

“I don’t think Luhan meant it like that.” Chanyeol clears his throat. “Never mind.” Music is playing in Vinyl, the occasional sway of obscure pop that none of them have ever heard. “I didn’t you know you were dating Luhan.” Chanyeol smiles into his drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he drinks.

“We’re not,” Jongin clarifies softly. “He’s just Luhan to me.” The ice clinks together at the bottom of his glass. When he was younger, he’d chew on the glass until they melted in his mouth, but Sehun always scolded him. Chanyeol asks if he wants a refill, but Jongin shakes his head no.

“It’s okay, I shouldn’t have too much soda either.” Jongin points to his stomach. “I need to be at the perfect weight.”

“I’ll always be here to help,” Chanyeol offers. “Going for the weight you need to be _healthy,_ I’m always here to help.” The way he says it, Jongin it’s not too subtle. He nods in return politely, even if something is nudging at the back of his brain, saying, _he knows._

“Let’s go back to noona and Sehunnie,” Jongin suggests. He hops off without much struggle. Chanyeol stands up, his jacket swagging onto the edge of the chairs. “Oh!” Jongin is the first to notice, hurrying over to unhook it.

“No, it’s okay.”

“But your coat...” Jongin mumbles, pulling it off and brushing it off. He looks up at Chanyeol with bright eyes, hoping for praise. Chanyeol chuckles, and ruffles his hair up again for the second time, and Jongin decides that he likes the man’s hand buried in his locks. Walking side by side, Jongin’s own hand brushes close to Chanyeol a few times too many. He’ll blame it on the alcohol, except he has none in him.

“Wow, you two are boring.” Yoora holds up her bagged drink. “Real Seoulites takes it like a pro, in fancy pansy bags.”

“I’m from Busan,” Chanyeol reminds her, sitting down in their seats which are still warm.

“Nah,” she waves him off, offering the bag to Sehun who takes a generous sip. “You were born in Seoul, just like me. You’re a Seoulite, brother! And you can’t deny it.”

Chanyeol grins and looks over at Jongin. “I guess I can’t.” He brushes a little bit of the sugar off the rim of his glass. “Were you born in Seoul, Jongin-ah?”

“I lived in the small neighborhoods off Seoul for a few years. Before, it was Incheon,” Jongin says. “But Sehun is a Seoul boy.”

Sehun’s eyes lit up, and he cups both his hands over Yoora’s drink. “That’s right! When I first met Jongin he didn’t even know what street vendors were. I took Jonginnie all over Seoul for the best school kid foods.” Yoora squeals and squishes Sehun’s cheeks, cooing into his ear.

“That sounds just like Chanyeol!” Yoora chirps.

Both Chanyeol and him look down at their cups in embarrassment, and Jongin looks over at him under his bangs. “It looks like Sehun-ah and noona are having fun,” he whispers, nudging the hyung.

“It seems so.” Chanyeol nudges him back. “This isn’t my kind of scene.”

“Not mine either, hyung.”

“Well, what is your kind of scene? Your kind of mood?” Chanyeol asks, running his fingers through his hair for any tangles.

Jongin wiggles back into the seat, pulling his jacket over himself like a blanket. “Home,” he breathes out. “In bed with magazines. It’ll be warm and safe. That’s where I like to be. And you, hyung?”

Chanyeol sets his drink on the table, the rosy look to his face doesn’t fade. “Somewhere where no one notices me,” he whispers, and Jongin has to strain his ear to hear. “That way, I don’t have to act so stiffly.” There’s a touch of sadness that drapes itself over Chanyeol’s face, but it’s gone as soon as Jongin blinks.

“Ack,” Sehun contorts his face. “What did you order noona?” he holds the bag away from his mouth, much to Yoora’s disappointment.

“Caipirinha!” she exclaims petulantly, looking hurt. “It’s my favorite drink, Sehun.” She huffs and kicks him to the side, clutching the bagged drink to herself while Sehun splutters.

“I-I mean it tastes amazing!” Sehun quickly says, looking over at Chanyeol and Jongin with frantic eyes. “Right, guys? That’s what I meant!” Jongin shakes his head as if to say ‘ _sorry’._ Chanyeol bites his lips, the corners of his mouth etched with lines as he tries not to laugh. “I’m sorry, noona, I’m sorry! I, uh, buy you another drink. Caipirinha?”

“I don’t _want_ another Caipirinha!”

Sehun’s face falls, and he tries to soothe the older woman with his gentle hands on her shoulders. Chanyeol can’t keep his laughter under his tongue; his shaking shoulders a result of it. Jongin stares at the doctor, mouth slightly parted. It has only been a few weeks since he had met Yoora’s brother, but Jongin never really saw him laugh so colorfully.

He likes that, too. 

 

 

 


	8. Half Of Paradise

Home is the red house wedged in between the gardener’s place and a neighbor who smokes the same shit Luhan does. Home is made of three people; a bedroom shared through the use of a bunk bed and a mattress. Home is a kitchen littered with cookbooks Sehun gets from ex-lovers—home is so lonely.

Wiggling his toes in socks is a common occurrence because the furnace isn’t working again. Jongin buries his face into the sofa, the itchy material is sure scratch his skin should he dare drag his face against it. Sehun is snoring upstairs; courtesy of Yoora declaring a drinking game between IV bags of Mojitos. Jongin had made sure to stock up on Advil on the way home, knowing Sehun will whimper into the sheets of a hangover.

The clock ticks to 12:02 AM, and home is so quiet.

Unable to bear the lack of humanity in the living room, Jongin struggles in turning up Sehun’s iPod. _Pachelbel_ plays like a bleak lullaby somewhere in between the soon-to-be-youth of early morning, and Luhan isn’t home yet. _Of course he’s not,_ Jongin thinks. _He must be celebrating his new role._ Maybe Jongin should’ve asked Luhan to join them all at Vinyl, and claim his role as prince of tequila.

“I can’t sleep,” he mumbles to himself, stretching the covers over himself. He winces when he turns his phone on, the bright light stinging. His last message was from Chanyeol.

 

11:18시간

 **Chanyeol** : Thank you...goodnight

 **Chanyeol** : See you tmmrw

 

Though nearly an hour ago, Jongin finds himself smiling at the messages. The lack of alcohol in his body leaves him restless through the witching hour, and part of him blames it on the waiting—hoping Luhan will be home soon before 6 AM.

_Hyung._

As if on cue, Jongin hears rustling from the front door. Sitting up, he’s quick to turn on the living room lights; not so bright that irritates Luhan. Jongin rubs the almost-sleep out of his eyes, fixing his pajama shirts so that he doesn’t look too much of a mess.

Luhan’s head pokes through the front door first, all tousled and sticking out in every place. His turtleneck stretches over his lips too, adding to that groggy-seeming state of his. “Hyung,” he whisper-shouts, hurrying over to the deer-man with open arms. Luhan huffs and waves him away.

“Hello sweetheart,” Luhan greets him dryly. His voice is swathed by his shirt, and him stripping out of his jacket is a slow and painful process. He drops his bag on the table, threatening to knock over the lamp and flower pot with no flowers in them.

“What’s wrong?” Jongin asks, pointing to his own lips. “I can’t really hear hyung, let me pull the turtle neck off you.” He reaches to tug it down, but Luhan jerks back.

“No,” he says hastily. Jongin stares at him, hands still in the air. “I mean...ugh.” Luhan sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “It’s really nothing.” He slips the turtleneck away, revealing battered lips, all red and blue.

“Hyung!” Jongin nearly cries, grabbing a hold of the elder’s wrist. Luhan struggles, muttering swears in both Mandarin and Korean. “Oh my God, it’s everywhere, even on your shirt! Hyung, what happened?” Jongin swears his voice is getting patchier by the second, but he can’t help it.

“Oh shut up doll face.” The sweet nickname is sour in Luhan’s tone, leaving Jongin feeling cold. The latter doesn’t budge, however, his grip still firm on his hyung. “It’s just a fucking bruise. A punch, I’m not going to _die._ ”

“But someone hurt you...”

“I hurt people all the time.”

There’s a silence that steadies itself between them, Jongin towering over Luhan with a frown. “Sit down hyung,” Jongin says, trying his best to leave no room for protest. Silly him, though, because Luhan _makes_ room anyways. “I’m going to clean up the blood.”

“No need.” Luhan pushes him aside, collapsing onto the couch. “It’s a good look for me.”

“Hyung,” Jongin says, and his voice is strained. Maybe Luhan notices too, because his features soften and the tension that lingers between his eyes fades. “Please don’t be like this.” The living room lights make the cut look worse than it is. The smirk that distorts it doesn’t help either.

Jongin, without another word, carries a wet cloth and a band-aid over to Luhan. “Sit in my lap,” the other man coaxes, grabbing onto Jongin’s thigh with a bit of a smile. “And fix my _boo-boo._ ” He wastes no time climbing into Luhan’s lap, careful with where his legs go so they don’t crush the bony guy.

“How did you get such a cut?” Jongin asks, his voice trembling. It _hurts,_ seeing Luhan like this. “Did someone hit you? Why? What did you do? What did they do?”

“Calm down.” Luhan hisses when the cloth touches his lip. “Oh fuck, never mind. I don’t need you to tend my wounds.”

“How did you get it, though?” Jongin presses. “Hyung, I want to know.” _Have to know._ Luhan turns his head, and Jongin can smell the strong scent of liquor on his tongue. He reeks of smoke too, and it smells just like home. The turtleneck shirt seems too big on him, as if Luhan had bought it a size too big.

“I kissed the same man I fucked over a few nights ago,” Luhan says tiredly, pulling at his hair. There’s not much fight left in him, his shoulders so small and hunched and the crusted blood around his mouth makes him looks like an avenging angel. Except angels don’t wear black, and angels don’t kiss their one-night stands.

Jongin flinches, as if he were the one who got the blow. “What do you mean?” Jongin asks, his voice shaky under his breath. His muscles are tired as well his mind, but he can’t sleep at all.

Luhan turns his head forward so that he’s looking up at Jongin. It’s alarming, really, the way his eyes are so dull—even for him. “You _should_ know what I mean. What happens when a boy kisses another boy who doesn’t _like_ him? Despises him, almost?”

Jongin gulps, and his hand on Luhan’s lip stills. “The other boy pulls away from the first boy.”

Luhan runs his hand up and down Jongin’s clothed thigh, and not even the layer of fabric could prevent chills from curling up his spine. “The other boy pulls away, screams, punches, and kisses him more.” Luhan’s hand finds itself tugging at the hem of Jongin’s pajama pants, a suggestive touch to his fingers that are too rough for such soft palms.

“Did you fight back?”

“I kissed him back.”

Jongin stays quiet for a moment, studying his hyung carefully. A striking oddity to the twenty-nine-year-old man who seemed to be born of a timeless god, baptized in youth. The split lip accompanied him like a fitted glove, like Luhan could walk about the streets with an open wound or bleeding from his neck and no one would even bat an eye. It fits him so well, and Jongin finds it appalling.

Tragedy fits him like a tailored suit.

Despite the cut, Luhan pulls out a carton of the bad things.

"Why do you smoke?"

Jongin's voice is muffled by the pillows with the faded colors. The furnace seems to be acting up again, and in between the thrilled protests of the heater, Luhan laughs. Perched on the corner of the bed, Luhan appears too still to be alive; maybe he isn't.

Jongin looks at the stairs, thinking about Sehun, scared he’ll wake up. He knows his face pressed into a variety of itchy wool blankets, liquor coating his lips. "Prometheus," Luhan lets the foreign name run through his teeth like a tease. "Stole fire from the gods." There's a crushed carton of Marlboro's under his thighs. They look like the empty ones Jongin had seen in his backpack. "Don't you think it's fitting, Jonginnie? Prometheus, the fucker who licked an ashtray for humanity? I'm a hero, Jongin! I'm a fucking god."

The harsh red marks on the clock snap to an unholy hour, and Jongin wonders which one of them will fall asleep first with the Angel Raphael between their tongue.

Luhan brings his eyes over to Jongin, and the latter swears he sees the Devil lurking somewhere in between the whites of his eyes and the dilated pupils. "Prometheus, then? Is that who you are?" Jongin asks tiredly, tracing the veins on his wrist with his nails. "Which story are you going with?"

Luhan smiles and it looks awful. "There's only one story for Prometheus, Jongin-ah." When he tilts his head back, a constellation of bruises seems to settle between the collarbone and his chin. Love bites, they call it.

They don't say anymore, even if they both know how the myth goes.

His hand is angled backwardly, a flirtatious exposure of his wrist. Sometimes, when he tags along with Luhan, many girls and boys will slide themselves into his lap, taking his smoking habits as flirts and coaxes. But Jongin knows better. It’s his habit, they call it, with the lighter spinning around in his hand—Prometheus’ lighter—and his lips just as bloody red as the blazing ashes at the end.  
  
Jongin leans in closer to him, hands resting on his chest. Luhan’s neck is on full exposure and blemished, his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down. Jongin can’t help but be in awe of Luhan’s smoking manners, even if he claims to be a god.

He nudges Jongin to hand him his carton, where he rubs the cherry between his fingers, the ashes fluttering down to their thighs. He tucks back the cigarette in its place for another hour.

A few moments later, Jongin curls up against Luhan like a puppy, wrapping his arms around Luhan tightly. “I’m glad you didn’t fight back,” he whispers, voice cracking. He doesn’t want to wake Sehun up. There’s a metallic tinge to Luhan, and it doesn’t take a genius to see how matted his hair is.

“So cute,” Luhan teases, running his hand through Jongin’s hair. He thinks it’s not like Chanyeol’s hand, who was gentle and tried not to mess up his hair so much, whereas Luhan’s nails graze his scalp and grips a fistful with a coo. “Kiss it better, Jongin. Kiss my bloody lip all better.”

“I...” Jongin hesitates. He pulls back, looking down at Luhan. His lip looks a lot more swollen than it did when he came through the door, looking awful in all the right ways and purple in the most terrible shade. Biting his own lip, Luhan searches his eyes. _Luhan always kisses my bruises,_ he thinks. Leaning in, Jongin hovers over Luhan’s lips, hot breaths exchanged almost sensually.

Luhan leans in, groaning when his cut lip comes into contact with Jongin’s. Anchoring himself in place, Jongin puts his hands on Luhan’s waist by reflex. “That’s right,” Luhan slurs against his teeth, tongue out to graze his own blood and Jongin’s pink mouth. “Sweetheart knows exactly what I want.”

“But your lip...” Jongin says meekly, Luhan’s lips leaving him to leave a soft trail of wet kisses down his jawline. “You’ll make it hurt more.”

“I know.” Luhan hands stroke Jongin’s collarbones, making him shiver. “You smell like a bar, Jongin. Were you drinking?” he asks, his voice lulling like sirens.

“Hyung didn’t let me drink,” Jongin says without a moment’s thought. “Chanyeol-hyung, I mean.”

Luhan narrows his eyes, but it doesn’t twist his face too badly. He continues to trace the skin between Jongin’s jaw and neck, where he is most sensitive. “Why are you always around him?” he asks in a spring-like voice, one that promises rain but doesn’t. Jongin thinks Luhan is too much like that. “I’m not saying much, but I find it...well, _strange,_ darling.”

Jongin feels like he’ll break under Luhan’s fingers.

“He’s not strange,” Jongin says. “He’s really kind. Just like Yoora, they’re both so kind.”

Luhan says nothing at all.

Instead, he buries his face into Jongin’s chest, nosing around as his teasing fingers try to unbutton. “Hyung!” Jongin nearly exclaims, but clamps down shut remembering that Sehun is sleeping upstairs. If Sehun wakes up, oh God, if Sehun wakes up, he’s sure he’ll punch the daylights out of Luhan. And he would let him. “Please don’t do this tonight, I’m so tired.”

“I was out drinking, if you couldn’t tell,” Luhan says dryly. His lip is still swollen, but his eyes are brighter than before. “Joonmyun was there too. Drinking.”

“Oh.”

“He said some interesting things.” Luhan’s voice rises like a shirt being lifted by a lover. “Something about the King of the Wilis role.” Jongin’s heart accelerates at the sound of that. _Does he know already,_ Jongin wonders, his ears tinted red.

“I wasn’t sure if I should say anything...” Jongin confesses. “I didn’t want to brag, that would be awful.”

When Luhan looks up, his face is lit up by a terrible glee. “Now now, don’t be like that Jongin-ah. You know how proud I am, right? My sweet little prince,” he tugs at Jongin’s buttons with his teeth in a sensual matter, and Jongin does his best not to flinch. “My little Jongin, _my little shrine._ ”

 

“ _I_ _t’s a...it’s usually a religious term.”_

 

“You’re really proud?”

“I am. Very proud.” Luhan wastes no time in unbuttoning Jongin’s striped shirt, exposing a bare chest paired with ribs and yellowish bruises. There’s something about his own body that makes Jongin self-conscious. Perhaps it's the Todd attacks that etch these bumps and accidental scars on his skin, or the number of bones peeking through his skin—no match to Yixing or Luhan.

_Inferior._

On cue, Jongin curls in, arms flying to his chest in an attempt to cover himself. “Lu...”

Luhan doesn’t say anything, only lowers down to his navel, a pink tongue poking out between a bloody lip. Wet against his skin, Jongin buries his face in his palms, biting down on his own lip. And maybe, his lips will match his. “King of Wilis. You’ll dance on stage with me. I’m so proud of you, so, _so_ proud.” His hand hooks into his pants.

“It feels weird,” Jongin says, his voice strained.

Luhan looks up curiously, and it’s one of the rare occasions where he seems to like that twenty-two-year-old who still laughed. It’s haunting, really. “But you like my touches,” he says, and he wonders if it’s just his imagination toying with him, with how Luhan leaves the sentence off with a questioning tilt. As if to solidify his own words, he runs a cold hand up and down Jongin’s chest.

“It feels weird,” Jongin repeats, not wanting to push Luhan off. It feels _weird,_ but not wrong, a voice reminds him at the back of his head. In a better hour, Jongin would have been carding his hand through Luhan’s messy hair, letting the latter kiss him whenever he wants.

In a better hour, he thinks.

“Sorry,” Jongin mumbles, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Luhan pulls away, straightening up with a stone-like face. There’s a twitch in his eye, but his lips remain in a thin line. “I’m going for a smoke,” says Luhan. He unfolds his turtleneck over his mouth again when Jongin grabs the elder by the wrist out of panic.

“Wait!”

Luhan looks back with lidded eyes. “What is this time?” he asks with a grouch, looking tired.

“Sehun will be mad if you touch me,” Jongin confesses. “But...you can. I...you’ll touch me, right? Like that, like earlier?” All of Jongin’s doubt is tucked away at Luhan’s face; pleased and triumphant. The turtleneck slips away when he cranes his neck, his hair falling in front of his eyes. There’s something particularly striking about the way Luhan is built—as if carved by God’s misery and anger, and smoothed out by tender kisses. Each blemish and lip scar almost purposefully, like it would be wrong if they weren’t plastered all over his body. Hair that should’ve been colored by the ashtray near the bus stop, or the streetlights that stay up around 3 AM.

It reminds Jongin of Chanyeol’s grayish hair, obviously dyed for appearance. It suits him so nicely, like when the light hits off and glamorizes the highlights, whereas Luhan’s doesn’t shine at all.

“You want me to,” Luhan collapses into Jongin’s lap again, fitting there quite nicely. “ _Touch you?_ Did I hear you right?”

In his good hours, he’ll say yes.

“Yes, hyung,” Jongin says, even if 12 AM isn’t one of them.

 

♕♕♕

 

5:41시간

 **Chanyeol:** It’s still early

 **Chanyeol** : People can be a source of both sincere support and good advice.

 **Chanyeol:** I don't know

 

 

♕♕♕

Hell is already half of paradise, and that's exactly what it feels like.

Jongin wakes up, his body encased by Luhan. Despite his obviously smaller frame, his hyung still manages to wrap his arm around him, even if it's around the neck. The lack of space on the sofa made an uncomfortable sleep, and Jongin doesn't mind the hot breath on his neck.

He didn’t get to sleep in his own bed or wake up to Sehun brushing the hair out of his eyes and urging him to shower. Instead, Luhan is around his waist, a familiar sight usually when the latter is drunk and wants a little free love. Feeling guilty, Jongin pulls away from Luhan, who is too deep in slumber to really care. Pulling the blanket over him is enough, and Jongin hurries upstairs in a poorly buttoned shirt.

His chance of tiptoeing into the bathroom is lost, with Sehun sitting up in bed with his hair sticking up. His eyes don’t look puffy, but his skin is tired and blemished.

“Jongin,” he croaks, before clearing his throat. “Where were you? I didn’t see you in your bed.”

Jongin gulps. “I was downstairs,” he says sheepishly. It’s not a lie, it’s not. “Sorry.”

Sehun blinks, his dark circles alarming. “Where’s Luhan?” he asks, his voice clearer and free of any stumbling words. He’s climbing down from his bunk, his back bare and facing Jongin. He can see the shoulder blades protrude through the skin, the spine lining the middle of his back through pale skin. When he turns around, he looks over at Jongin tiredly. “Tell me the truth.”

Jongin winces. He tugs at his collar, feeling the air too stuffy. “Did you just wake up?”

Sehun looks away. “I did, I regret it too.” He turns his eyes back to Jongin, which had softened a bit but still held true to its frustration. Sehun grabs Jongin’s wrist, running his fingers across his bones. “You reek of sex, Jongin. You fucking _stink_ of it.”

“It wasn’t...”

The softness in Sehun’s eyes are gone, and he is more awake than ever. He peels away at Jongin’s shirt, revealing skin covered in love bites. At least, that’s what they call them, _devil spit,_ others would say. Sehun shuts his eyes, his grip on Jongin loosening.

“Sehunnie,” Jongin pleas. “Don’t yell at hyung, I wanted it. ” _That’s what I should say, right?_ Sehun stumbles back, grabbing a fistful of his own hair. Jongin steps back, even if Sehun would never hit him. Afraid is the word, afraid for _who,_ now that’s a little different. “Lu just did it because I wanted to.”

“He took advantage of you!” Sehun snaps. “I can see it, I can fucking see it in your eyes.”

“No, he didn’t!”

“I should’ve been awake,” Sehun bashes himself, gripping his head in his whitening hands. “You should’ve _gone to bed before he got home!”_ He’s not yelling at Jongin, that’s the thing. Sehun’s yelling at this house.

“Please don’t yell,” Jongin says faintly. “I don’t want to get another Todd...” he covers his shoulders up, the flash of a red kiss mark on his skin makes him want to recoil. A few words out of Jongin’s mouth seems to pull a reaction out of Sehun.

Shirtless, like he usually sleeps in when the room is too hot. Sehun stares at his best friend who seemed to have never grown up from the shell of his fourteen-year-old self. “Sit down,” he says coldly, but his face says otherwise. His brows are slanted, and his lower lip is quivering. “Sit in your bed and rest.”

Jongin grabs at his best friend’s arm, cradling it with a desperate hue to his eyes. “Sehun!” he cries, panic and anxiety seeping through his skin. “Lu isn’t the bad person you always make him out to be, Sehun-ah. Sehunnie, don’t yell at him. Yell at me, yell at me.”

_Even if it hurts._

Sehun tries to pull away, but Jongin latches onto him, pulling them both to the floor. Sehun’s shoulders slump, and he lets Jongin curl against him like a kicked puppy. His ribs nudge him, but Jongin doesn’t say anything. He really doesn’t want to. Luhan is still asleep downstairs, and the room is so empty with just the two of them.

“I need sex too,” Jongin whispers. “It’s weird, huh? Everyone thinks I’m a child and too _good_ for it. But it’s not true...it’s...” he sneezes. “I’m lonely too.” Sehun’s skin is freezing against Jongin’s clothed body, and he wants to hold his friend tighter, in hopes he’ll be warm, too.

Sehun sighs, sounding dejected. His hand finds a way to Jongin’s, patting the back of it slowly. “You don’t have to go to _him_ for it. Jongin, you’ve been with me half of my life, and I—I _can_ help you with your needs. I know you have them, despite what everyone says.”

Jongin laughs weakly against him, his hot breath ends up tickling Sehun’s skin. “You like girls, Sehun.” He looks up at him, aware that his swollen lip and love bites are on full display. He knows that Sehun hates it, but there’s no help to it. “You like girls with petite bodies and flowery laughter, you just like girls.”

Sehun stiffens.

“But I...” Sehun sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. He still looks troubled, but he’s not yelling anymore. “I don’t like it, Jongin. Luhan fucks around too much and I don’t know if it hurts you emotionally that he does that and it really,” he cuts himself off with the shut of his eyes. “He’s not good for you. Even in that sense.”

Something snaps.

“He’s good for me.” Jongin mumbles, sitting up. Somewhere in between the yelling and the leech-like hugs, Sehun had dragged his blanket off the bed and wrapped it around the boy. “Good to me.” To others, it may be humiliating. But Jongin isn’t _supposed_ to. Blinking back his sleep, Jongin stares back at Sehun with a quivering lip. “I don’t know why you keep saying that.”

Sehun widens his eyes. Jongin rolls the blanket off of him, pent up frustration lines the base of his throat. “Sehun, you’re always talking bad about him. You even said a piece of gossip about Chanyeol. Am I...” he trails off, noticing the bewildered look on his friend’s face.

_Let it out._

“Am I the center of your gossip too?”

“Jongin!”

“I don’t know!” Jongin splutters, shutting his eyes and huddles closer into himself. He wonders how far he can go, tightening into a human ball. “You’re always talking and socializing and I don’t know. I don’t know Sehun!”

Sehun pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut but Jongin can still the eyes behind the skin move rapidly. “Why are you thinking like this?” Sehun asks calmly, even if his knuckles are too white for this scene.

Something in between his thoughts had a different say. _Apologize,_ his conscience hisses, and he winces outwardly. Even not drinking at all leads to a throbbing headache, one that has him holding his head in his hands. But instead of apologizing like he normally does—like he’s _supposed_ to, Jongin clamps his mouth shut and focuses on the pain.

“Jongin.”

He clears his throat. “I’m going out,” Jongin croaks, getting up on his feet. Prying his eyes open, he could almost laugh. _This is okay,_ he thinks, staring at his own arm wearily. Swinging on its own, he throws his head back, the Todd acting out again. “I’ll see you later, Sehunnie.”

Like the swing-set near the bus stop, his arm flings itself back and forth, even if he can’t feel it. “Jongin!” Sehun says in a protest, but Jongin wastes no time in hurrying into jeans and a shirt, not wanting to look at him or his arm.

The door shuts behind him.

Rushing downstairs while buttoning his shirt with one hand, he stumbles into the kitchen. _Medication,_ his little thoughts rasps. _Take the medications._ Luhan is still asleep, sprawled across the sofa with the kisses on his back on full display. It hurts a little, maybe, that not all of them are from Jongin. A small part of him wants to crawl up against him like a wall and kiss the skin between his shoulders. But _Sehun,_ Sehun will never love that.

7 AM isn’t one of his good hours, either.

Jongin knows he can use his arm, he knows it well. Except the tease in his thoughts says, _no, no you can’t. You can’t you can’t._ So he doesn’t. Unscrewing the cap off his beta blockers is tricky, but he gets the hang of it. He hears Sehun rustling upstairs all the while calling his name, and it takes every fiber not to turn around and fling himself at Sehun.

 _You hurt my feelings,_ he thinks sadly, swallowing the pill down his throat with struggle. It’s never fun to take medications, especially when it takes three every morning. Stuffing the other two in a Ziploc bag, he hurries to grab his shoes.

“Jongin, I’m sorry!” Sehun flies down the staircase, a too-large t-shirt gracing his body. It hangs loosely on his shoulders, but then again, all their clothes did. “I shouldn’t have said that, okay? I didn’t mean it like that.”

Jongin looks over at the door, thin enough that if Luhan dared to wake, he would hear it all. “I’m going for a walk, and coffee I think.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sehun says quickly, grabbing his wallet on the side table.

“No,” Jongin shakes his head. “I want...I want to be alone.” Sehun recoils, and for the first time in a while, _prince_ Sehun seems just as small and lost as Jongin. Taking advantage of the dazed state of the boy, Jongin struggles into his shoes, his arm still swinging and his thoughts cackling at him.

The front door is the one to shut this time, except it’s the loudest.

There are no sunny days in Seoul, at least not in the winter. Jongin shuffles his feet against the asphalt sidewalks, the laces untied and he doesn’t mind. The look in Sehun’s eyes haunts him still, when the latter ripped down the collar of his shirt to reveal little secrets from last nights.

“It’s not wrong,” he whispers to himself, burying his face into the front of his jacket. “Sehun was just being mean to me.” He doesn’t mean that either. His phone bumps against his sides in his pocket, and he regrets not charging it the night before. Instead, he clings onto the small percentage it has left, and breathes into the neighborhood air that he had loved for years.

Two lefts and going straight ahead leads him to the main road, where all the shops are lined up on the street that no car has ever graced. It’s all walking really, the cracked pavement too narrow for a real car to bump through. He walks past the photography shop—there’s an odd number of baby photo services in this neighborhood—and catches sight of the clinic, just a few stores ahead.

In the window of Yoora’s clinic, he sees the woman with her hair up, looking perky and bright despite drinking last night. Jongin can blame it on the impulse really, when he opens the door and peeks through, the bell on top ringing him up. Yoora looks up, her eyes bright and cheerful when she catches sight of him.

“Oh! Jonginnie!” she exclaims, much too loud for the early mornings. Bare-faced and smile bright, she beckons him to come in. “Are you here for a check-up or to visit the best sister of this street?”

Jongin laughs. “Of course to visit my favorite noona,” he assures her. “I just wanted to go somewhere for some air, and none of the shops really open until later.”

Yoora smiles again, except it is softer and less dramatic. Tugging on her earrings, she nods. “You’re always welcomed here.” She cranes her neck and winces, and Jongin realizes that not enough alcohol’s lovers are immune to late-night drinks. “Hey, brother! Get your ass out here.”

“Do we have someone?” Chanyeol’s voice sounds through the room. “And don’t swear in front of patients—oh, hi Jongin.” He pokes his head through the door, his hair down and his glasses sliding off his nose. It looks softer when it isn’t styled up. Scratching the back of his neck awkwardly, he waves.

“H-hello,” Jongin greets. He plops down on one of the waiting room seats, hugging his jacket close to him. “Good morning Chanyeol-hyung and noona.” Yoora hands him a paper cup filled to the brim with water.

“I don’t have coffee filters here,” Yoora says sadly. “I hope water will do for you.”

Jongin beams. “Thank you noona.”

Chanyeol sits down beside him, smoothing down the crinkles in his pants as he does so. “What brings you by?” he asks, his kind eyes whispering another ‘ _good morning_ ’. “I hope it’s not for any medical reasons. Are your ankles okay?” he asks, nudging Jongin’s shins with his own. It tingles, and Jongin shakes his head.

“No, my ankles are doing very well.” He downs the water quickly, crushing up the paper cup because he likes the sound of it.

“Oh!” Yoora pipes up. “Does my brother take care of you at the theatre?”

“Yeah,” Jongin confirms, his eyes crinkling even further when his smile widens. “He is very well rounded at his job, Jongdae-ssi compliments him all the time.”

“Jongdae-ssi?” Yoora asks, obviously hearing this name for the first time.

“My sunbae,” Chanyeol clarifies. “Except he doesn’t like that title. He says it makes him feel old.” When distracted in conversation with Yoora, Jongin looks over at the dark circles under Chanyeol’s eyes. Unlike his sister, he can tell that he isn’t holding his liquor well. It’s almost endearing.

“Well,” Yoora taps at her watch. “You _both_ have to leave for the subway train to central Seoul at nine, why don’t you eat breakfast, and bring me something too!”

“But we already ate—” Chanyeol cuts himself off with Yoora’s twitching eye. Sighing, he looks over at Jongin with an apologetic smile. But Jongin just grins, feeling the earlier morning fade away with the kinks in his muscles. He was supposed to stretch and practice with Sehun, but that fell out of schedule.

“Do you want to eat breakfast with me?” Jongin asks quietly. “It’ll be a quick one. I haven’t eaten yet...”

“I always feel like my sister is sending us off on breakfast dates,” Chanyeol jokes, giving his sister a sideways glare.

_Date._

Jongin widens his eyes, the heat surging up to his cheeks like apples. Chanyeol seems to notice too, because his eyes widen even further, lips spluttering out messy words. “I mean! Breakfast meals! N-not like that, my Korean is poor, I mean...”

Jongin chuckles, putting a hand on the elder’s to soothe him of the embarrassment. “I know what you mean,” says Jongin with laughter wrapped around his voice. Yoora snorts, typing away at her computer. “We can just eat something from the convenience store since hyung already ate.” _I just hate eating alone,_ he wants to say, but hides it under his scarf.

“Go you two,” Yoora ushers them out the door with a wave of her hand. “Give your sister some me-time! I want to call _Sehunnie_ over to the clinic. Poor baby probably has a hangover.” She pouts, her eyes lost on a photo on her phone. “My little tall baby!”

Jongin’s stomach lurches at the name but smiles. “Sehun will need someone sweet like you for his hangovers.” Yoora giggles. Chanyeol, looking uncomfortable, helps Jongin to his feet.

“Where’s the convenience store?” Chanyeol asks, pulling him out of the clinic. His hands are warm, and Jongin’s arm has stopped swinging so violently. “Sorry for pulling you out there, when my sister starts gushing about her men it makes me feel weird. It’s strange seeing my sister date.”

“Why?” Jongin asks, letting Chanyeol pull him along.

Chanyeol shrugs. “I really haven’t seen my sister too much until a few months ago...I just sort of, _forgot,_ that she dates and stuff.” He turns around to Jongin, looking down at the boy who is only really a few inches shorter. “That’s normal, right? A brother should care about that?”

“You’re a good brother.”

He looks a little sad. “Am I?”

Jongin nods, quickening his pace to match Chanyeol. “You’re a good brother in my books,” Jongin reassures him, giving his hand a squeeze. Chanyeol’s hand feels so warm in his that Jongin finds he doesn't want to let go, so he holds on tight, continuing. "I have two sisters, too, hyung. You’re a better brother than I’ll ever be.”

“Really?” Chanyeol asks, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know you had siblings.”

Jongin nods. “I have two. One is around your age I think. Maybe a year younger. The other is around her mid-thirties. She has a family, too. I’m pretty sure I’m an uncle.”

“You think?” Chanyeol asks, and when he breathes out against the air, it looks like he’s smoking.

“Yeah, I think.” Jongin wonders why the air isn’t as cold as it should be. “I haven’t seen them in years. Maybe six or seven years ago for Chuseok.” It hurts less to talk about them, and maybe in a year or two, he can say their names again. Chanyeol finally lets go of his hand, and the air is cold again. Instead, Chanyeol moves Jongin’s hands, so that they fit in snugly in his pockets.

“I’m sure they would be so proud of you, if they could see you now.” Chanyeol kicks his feet, and a rock stumbles in front of them. “You’re so strong and powerful with your dances. I’m sure they would love to see you preform.”

“Maybe.”

“So where’s the convenience store? I feel like I’m leading the way and I don’t want to get us lost,” Chanyeol admits sheepishly.

“It’s around the corner. You were going the right way.” Jongin points to the set of bikes on the side. “You can always look for those two green bikes. They haven't left its place in front of the store for years.”

“Why?”

Jongin shrugs, beckoning Chanyeol to follow him with a happier face to him. “I don’t know, I guess someone left them there and never came back for them." 

 

♕♕♕

“What are those, are they medication?”

Jongin looks down at the plastic bag zipped with two pills. “Yeah, I need them for my...” he falters a little. “Headaches.” Yeah, that sounds a lot better. Jongin clutches the bottle of water, opening and tossing the cap aside.

“Can I see?” Chanyeol asks, his words tinted with precaution and genuine curiosity. “I used to work in the internal medicine department, I’m just really nosy. Sorry.” Jongin scoots closer to him so that their shoulders bump. This surprised Chanyeol a little bit, as he nearly topples over in the stool chair.

“Here you go,” Jongin presses the two pills into Chanyeol’s hands. “The yellowish one is what I take first, and the more blueish one comes after!” he points out the colors. “I already took the first one today.”

“What was the first one?” Chanyeol asks, a little amused by Jongin’s eagerness.

“Beta blockers. I don’t know the fancy name.” Jongin shrugs. It’s nice to glorify the bad things, especially when they’re his pesky medications, he doesn’t mind. Chanyeol takes a few moments to take in the name, before looking over at Jongin questioningly.

“Oh...” Chanyeol says, and Jongin has a feeling that he had something else to say instead. Ignoring the concern in his eyes, Jongin pops it quickly in his mouth, gulping down water until it dribbles down his chin. _You look like a child,_ his conscience bites at him dryly. He pulls the water bottle away from his mouth, coughing into his sleeves. “Jongin!” Chanyeol exclaims, pulling the water bottle away from his grasp.

Chanyeol grabs a handful of napkins and dabs at his mouth and neck, where the water splattered his skin. Still coughing too much to protest, he tries to move Chanyeol’s hands away, so that they don’t tug at his collar and see. “It’s okay, I’m okay.” Jongin mumbles. “I’m so clumsy, huh?” _Like a kid._

“Everyone does something clumsy,” Chanyeol says, still dabbing at his mouth with the napkin. Jongin, too red-faced to make eye contact, stares at Chanyeol’s collarbone instead, which is exposed with his shirt hanging over. “Don’t belittle yourself okay, Jonginnie?” _Jonginnie,_ his face gets even more flushed.

“I can clean myself up,” Jongin says hastily, trying to push Chanyeol’s hands away. Except it’s too late when he at a love bite. “Really...hyung, I can do it myself.” The older man doesn’t protest, and Jongin feels tears prick at his eyes.

 _Why am I so embarrassed?_ he wonders, tugging at his scarf. _First Sehun now hyung._

“Are you...” Chanyeol starts, his voice subtle and slightly pinched with worry. “Did I make you cry? I’m sorry I should’ve listened to you the first time. I didn’t mean to, Jongin-ah.”

Jongin just wipes roughly at his skin, leaving it slightly pink. “It’s nothing,” Jongin replies with a throaty tone. “It’s just that...I...don’t want you to,” he coughs again. “Think any less of me.”

“Huh?”

“Pretend you didn’t see.” Jongin crumples up all the napkins into a wad to throw out later. “The... _red things_ on my neck.” Jongin readjusts the scarf around his face, so that covers his mouth too. To be truthful, he wants to hide in it to repent his embarrassment, but he doesn’t.

“The hickeys?” Chanyeol asks with a weak chuckle. “I don't think any less of you for that. You’re a twenty-year-old with needs.” He pats Jongin’s back and flinches at the sudden contact. “Sorry—”

“No, no.” Jongin shakes his head. “It...it feels comforting. It makes me feel better.” _He thinks I’m weird,_ Jongin thinks dreadfully. _Crying and taking medications and love bites._ Chanyeol continues to pat the younger man’s back, the convenience store relatively empty due to the early hours of the morning.

“I am a twenty-year-old with...needs, right?” Jongin asks, though he’s not looking for an answer. “It’s normal for me, right hyung?”

“I...yes.” Chanyeol sounds a tad confused. “Did someone tell you it wasn’t normal?” His hand rests on Jongin’s shoulders, and all he wants to do now is curl into the taller one’s chest like he does with Luhan and Sehun.

“I don’t know anymore,” Jongin sighs into his scarf, shutting his eyes. He’s tired, and Chanyeol is too. “Everyone says I’m too good for things like that, too nice.” He curls his fingers into his jeans, knuckles flashing white and red. “It makes me feel bad. Guilty.”

“I’m sorry, Jongin.”

“No, I’m sorry for burdening you with all this.”

“But you’re not.” Chanyeol gives his shoulder a squeeze. “It feels nice to have someone confide in me. I...I never really had anyone do that. Not even my sister trusts me enough.” Jongin looks over at Chanyeol with a hesitant face.

“Why?” he asks, sitting up. Chanyeol lets his arm drop from his shoulder.

Chanyeol shrugs. “Distance. I moved and it was only recently now that I’m back in Seoul. I don’t blame her, really. Especially how I barged into her home and privacy just because I needed a home.” He’s still smiling, his ears sticking out and his eyes leveled.

“You didn’t barge into her life,” Jongin says, nudging at Chanyeol. “She seems a lot happier these days. I’ve known noona since I moved here. I was maybe thirteen or fourteen.”

“I thought you lived in Yeonhui all your life.”

Jongin shakes his head. “Nope, I moved here when Luhan became my guardian. Yoora was around her mid-twenties then. She partied a lot and we all knew she was working her way to a degree. She lived alone, which a lot of the neighboring older women thought was weird.”

Chanyeol nods, intrigued in the story. “I was abroad back then, I guess.”

“Yoora seems a lot more at ease with you here. She may not act like it, but she had lived alone for all the years I’ve known her, Luhan even said it was like before I was here. So don’t worry, hyung. You’re a good brother.”

Chanyeol reaches over to give Jongin a pat on the head, and the latter melts against his touch. Simple and gentle, and he likes it that way. “You made me feel a better about myself,” Chanyeol admits, pushing up his glasses. “You’re a good person, Jongin.”

It sounds almost true coming from him.

“We should go...or I should go at least. To the theatre.” Jongin stands up, grabbing all of their wrappers and empty bottles to toss out. “I’m feeling nervous about the role announcements. I want to just prepare myself.”

“I’ll come along too.” Chanyeol slips on his coat. “I have to get to work anyways, and maybe Dr. Lim will want company. She’s always the first to come.”

Jongin nods. “Dr. Lim is pretty, isn’t she?” he asks, though the answer rings ‘ _of course’_ on both parties. He brushes past Chanyeol, giving an encouraging smile. “Maybe she likes you, hyung.”

Chanyeol seems flustered at that. “Don’t say silly things, Jongin. I highly doubt someone will like a shut-in like me.”

“A shut in?”

Chanyeol smiles, even if it is not as happy and flowery like the prior ones. “Let’s go to the subway. It’s a little way out of here. Always in Hongdae.”

“Yeah, always.” 

 

♕♕♕

It’s crowded, with people going to work. Chanyeol had pressed Jongin down into an empty seat, him himself settling for standing in front of him, like a human shield from all the stumbling people. “Are you sure hyung?” Jongin asks, feeling bad. “I’m younger, it’s only correct that you’re the one to sit down.”

“Are you teasing me about my age?” Chanyeol asks, raising a brow.

“N-no!”

Chanyeol feigns hurt in his face, even if done a little dramatically. “I didn’t know that was how you thought of me; like an old man. I am only twenty-nine.” Jongin grabs Chanyeol’s free hand in apology, catching the latter off surprised.

“I’m sorry,” Jongin whispers. “You are still young hyung. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Chanyeol tries not to smile, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know, Jongin.” He lets go and pats the young dancer with his hand. Jongin’s lap feels neglected without the presence of his duffel bag, but he knows Sehun will bring it. “Why aren’t you with the others, by the way? I wasn’t going to say anything, but I’m surprised.”

“Well...” Jongin looks down at his hands. “I think Sehun is upset. Because of Luhan and I.”

“Why? What happened?”

For a while, Jongin doesn’t say anything. In a better day, keeping silent is the key to make people go away, or stop caring. In a better world, that would be Jongin’s little action maybe would work. Except Chanyeol continues to look down at him, his bangs hanging over his forehead. His glasses are tucked in his pocket because he says he doesn’t need it all the time.

Jongin sighs, and points to his neck. “Sehun got mad...” he doesn’t say anymore, hoping Chanyeol will get it. And he does. “I should’ve apologized, huh?”

“Oh.”

“It’s bad.”

“No, it’s not.”

When they stop, many people pile off as much as those who squeeze through the doors, in hopes to catch a seat. A seat frees up next to Jongin, but Chanyeol doesn’t take it. “I don’t really understand why Sehun is mad, or why you have to be sorry. But coming from me, I don’t see the reason for you to apologize.”

Jongin nods, but still refuses to look up. “Thank you, hyung...”

“I thought you said you and Luhan weren’t dating,” Chanyeol muse, going for casual but missing the mark slightly. “I guess I was asking a personal question last night then, sorry.”

“You weren’t, and we’re not. Dating, I mean. Lu-hyung has better lovers than me.” He touches his collarbone, wondering if the other dancers will laugh at him for wearing a scarf during warmups. When the others get hickeys or bruises, they _never_ cover it up, because people accept it and move onto their plies. But Jongin isn’t _normal._

“Does it hurt?”

“The love bites? No, it doesn’t—”

“No I mean,” Chanyeol racks his brain for the words. “Luhan, I mean. I haven’t talked to him personally but, it seems like you care a lot about him.”

“I do, he cared for me all these years.” Jongin smiles. “He’s the most beautiful dancer I know, both flat and en pointe. He’s _the best._ ”

“But does it hurt you?” he asks sadly. “That Luhan has other...uh, ‘lovers’?”

Jongin blinks. “I don’t know, should it?”

It’s Chanyeol’s turn to be taken back.

“Lu-hyung has a lot of love to give. Sehun says it’s just sexual and physical love. But it’s still love.” Jongin lets his shoulders slump, and he fiddles with the frayed ends of his sleeves. “Luhan just loves more than other people.” _Even if it’s not..._

“Ah, okay.” Chanyeol seems to force himself to accept Jongin’s answer. “I just don’t want you to get hurt over it. You’re a sweet boy, Jonginnie. You don’t seem like the type to deserve pain.”

Jongin feels his stomach do a flip, taking in and savoring all the kind words the tall hyung has to say. “No one deserves pain, though.”

“You’d be surprised.”

They both get off at their stop, Chanyeol muttering ‘ _sorrys’_ and ‘ _excuse me’_ throughout the crowd. His hand finds itself on Jongin’s shoulders by instinct, trying to pull him out of the way before someone knocks into him. It’s a lot easier to get through without his huge bag knocking behind him, carrying legwarmers and three water bottles.

“It still feels like Busan,” Chanyeol says ruefully. “All the bumping and knocking and no one cares. Yeonhui is so quiet compared to the rest of Seoul.”

“Yeonhui is so calm, right?” Jongin moves towards the street, taxis and buses stuck in traffic, all the vehicles honking and anger shouting as an accessory to the morning. “I’m happy Yeonhui isn’t so loud, even if it gets lonely sometimes.”

“I’m still not used to the fact that I can wake up without car honks now.” Chanyeol throws his head back and exhales loudly. “I feel like I can adjust to this lifestyle soon, though.”

“And what is this lifestyle?”

“A happier one, Jongin. It’s a happier one.” When he says _happier,_ Chanyeol says it in English. The word meshes together with his Korean, and it sounds so funny. Jongin tries the word out in his thoughts, ‘ _happier’._ Foreign yet so accustomed to it, Jongin finds a place for the word in his brain.

They enter through the back door of the building, the cold air switching and hitting them both. “Some things never change,” Jongin jokes, hurrying inside. There’s no one really here yet, none of them shows up until nine on the dot. “Can I...can I sit in the physio for a little bit? I hate being alone.”

“Of course, you can keep me company.” Chanyeol suggests, leading the way towards the office. He already has the place mapped out like the back of his hand, the term ‘newcomer’ unhinging itself from Chanyeol’s name. Now, he’s just Park Chanyeol, just Chanyeol.

“Do you have anything to do today?” Jongin asks, hurrying to keep pace with him. He really wants to change into his clothes, but the locker rooms are far away and he doesn’t want to go alone. So instead, he tags along with Chanyeol.

“Well, after the roles are listed, the plan is to meet with the dancers and help them with their goals. Especially those who want to lose weight. The thing is, the plan doesn't always work though, if what Jongdae says about them not showing up on their own is true.” Chanyeol elbows Jongin. “Can I count on you to show up?”

“Of course!” Jongin beams. “I won’t let you down.”

Dr. Lim is there when Chanyeol opens the door to the physio. “Oh, you two.” She looks up from her thick-rimmed glasses, strands of her hair falling in front of her face. Rolling back in her chair away from the computer, she waves. “So early. Did you come with Chanyeol, Jongin?”

“I did,” Jongin nods, giving a short bow, a nod of the head really. “We live in the same neighborhood, so...”

Chanyeol clears his throat and makes his way to his own desk. “Take a seat Jongin, you can rest if you want. I’ll have to write up some emails. I can check on your ankles again before you go off for warm ups and stretches, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Taking a nap Jongin? The blankets are folded up on the chair over there. Sleep warmly! We’ll stay quiet.” Dr. Lim points to the colorful stacked up quilts with a smile.

“Thank you by the way,” Jongin remembers, “for taking care of me the other day. Hyung said you put the blankets around me when I was sleeping in here.”

Dr. Lim cocks an eyebrow, looking bemused. “Did he?” she shoots a glance at Chanyeol, who avoids both their eye contact. “I recall it was _Chanyeol_ that wrapped you up in all those blankets. It was endearing to watch, honestly. He looked like he was caring for a sick puppy. Cute.” She winks at him, who keeps his eyes on the screen despite his pink ears.

“Oh...”

“Go rest, Jongin. You have half an hour before the other dancers pool in.” Chanyeol looks up from his email with an empathized face, his mouth curved and pleasant. “Sleep well, you seemed tired this morning.”

 

♕♕♕

“Jongin!” It’s Sehun’s voice, clearly, and it’s even louder in the locker rooms. When Jongin looks up from tying his shoes, he sees Sehun storming towards him with two duffel bags on his shoulders, one belonging to him. “Oh my God, you didn’t answer my calls or my texts and didn’t even come home for your bag. You didn’t even tell me you left for the theatre already! Even Luhan was fucking worried!”

Jongin’s voice wavers blatantly. “I’m sorry,” he says, his words cracking. Even if it had only been a few hours, he _misses_ his best friend’s voice. Staggering to his feet, he wraps his arms around Sehun, burying his face into his neck. “I’m sorry for leaving early and not answering your calls. My phone is dead.”

Sehun breathes out, but he had visibly relaxed. “No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have treated you like a kid. You’re not, you’re so much more than that.” He drops both of their duffel bags on the floor and gives Jongin a peck on the cheek. “I didn’t mean to upset you like that. So much that you got a Todd.”

“You knew?” Jongin asks.

“I did,” Sehun says sadly. “I could tell when you went into shock, I’m so sorry.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you. I came with Chanyeol-hyung.” Sehun visibly relaxes at the mention of Yoora’s brother.

“I know,” Sehun says. “She told me you left with him this morning for breakfast. That makes me feel better.

_Why?_

“I have something to tell you,” Jongin says in a quiet voice. The locker rooms are by no means, an ideal place for spilling secrets, but it’s something. Sehun eyes him warily, bracing himself for bad news. “But, you have to promise that you won’t yell at me.” Jongin holds up his pinky finger up to Sehun’s face, feeling a little shy.

“Did you do something?” Sehun asks. His face turns darker and he grabs Jongin’s elbows, the bruise still dull but his touch so gentle. It is as if he thought he’d break. “Did you...you didn’t do _drugs_ again, did you? If you had to cope with what I said earlier—”

“Wait Sehun it’s not...”

“I’m sorry!” Sehun rambles on, his words under his breath as if nervous, should anyone else hear from the locker room. “If I made you turn to that for some _coping,_ I shouldn’t have yelled at you. It’s my fault, but I just want you to know that—,”

“Sehun-ah!” Jongin exclaims, trying to plead with him. It’s the closest thing he’s ever come back to exasperation. “It’s not, I didn’t do _those things!_ ” Sehun stares at him, agape. “Oh my God, Sehunnie! I didn’t do those, I didn’t do them at all!”

“Alright alright, I’m sorry.” Sehun pulls away, looking frazzled. “I’m not going to jump to conclusions again. My bad.”

Jongin pulls on his scarf again, trying to adjust so they’ll hide last night’s secrets. “I was going to say something about the auditions,” he mumbles. Sehun makes an ‘O’ with his mouth. “It’s about my role.”

Sehun seems more relaxed now, the paranoia in his face now faded to a faint spark of what has been. Stripping himself to change, he makes humming sounds to let Jongin know that he’s listening. “Oh, the things we auditioned for the other day? Yeah, what about them.”

Jongin bites down on his lower lip. What should he say? They’ve tried out for the same roles before, yes. Of course, it was either that they didn’t make it or they’d end up together, being apart of the whole _coryphee_ troupe. But this is different. _The Queen of the Wilis_ didn’t really go for corps member, let alone a male. What will Sehun say, or do?

Chanyeol’s words sneak through in between his anxiety. _Sehun’s not going to hate you for that,_ he reminds him, in that chocolate-like voice of his that makes his insides churn. _You’re right,_ Jongin mentally replies to, well, no one. “It’s just...you remember when Joonmyun-hyung pulled me aside? Before we left the company?”

“Uh huh. You looked a little scared.”

Jongin chuckles, albeit a bit forced. “It _was_ a little scary. Joonmyun is so unpredictable. Sorry, I’m getting off track.” Sehun laughs again, reaching over to give him a pat on the cheek. “He was saying something. To me, that is. It was about how I might be the one—,”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. These days he rarely does. Minseok bursts through the locker room doors, panting heavily. He props himself up against the side, his wife beater hanging loosely from his body. “Oh my God, there you are!” he gasps, hitting himself in the chest a few times to level himself. “The bulletin board, did you two not see? The roles, they’re up!”

“Already?” Sehun’s eyes widen. “I didn't think they'd finalize it before this afternoon!”

Jongin pales, but neither of them notices. “Joonmyun is really serious about these roles,” Minseok reminds him. “I think he pulled an all-nighter figuring outthe parts.” _Funny,_ Jongin thinks, _because Joonmyun-ah was drinking with Lu last night._

“That’s great, oh wow. Come on Jongin, let’s see the roles.” Sehun tightens his dance flats by tapping his heel on the floor a few times for good measure. “Oh, what were you saying about Joonmyun-hyung?”

Jongin chuckles nervously, stuffing his hands into the thin pockets of his cardigan. “It’s nothing,” he whispers unintentionally. “Let’s just go, Sehunnie.” Sehun holds out his open hand for Jongin to grab, their hands fitting nicely into each other. Jongin can't help but compare the feeling of Sehun’s soft hands to Chanyeol’s rough, broad palms.

They follow the ecstatic Minseok down the hall, to the main room where the bulletin board is. It sits in the center actually, pinned with schedules and encouragement notes written in six different languages, even if no one really meant them. The board is crowded with the group of dancers, chattering erupting in different tones.

“Oh hell, how are we supposed to get up front?” Minseok huffs out, trying to move the three of them into the clusterfuck. His eyes light up, and he snaps his two fingers to get Soojung’s attention. “Soojung! Soojung, are you in there?” he shouts in between the crowd’s protests and whines.

A hand pops up, slender and decorated in rings and bracelets. “Here!” she chirps, poking her head up too by doing a short jump. She sticks a hand in between the clumped bodies, helping all three of them to the front. Her pretty face wilts when some people whine, and she snarls at them like a cat. “The roles are all reversed, Sooyeon doesn't have a big part!” she squeals in glee, hitting Minseok playfully out of her joy.

But Jongin doesn’t pay attention. Written in bold font, are the list of names and the role beside them.

 

**Lu Han Giselle | Gideon**

**Zhang Yixing Hilarion**

**Bae Seul-gi Albrecht | Brecht**

**Kim Jong-In Myrtha | Myrth**

 

Jongin had always wonder how exhilarating it must be to see your name on the bulletin board, and now _it’s there_ _._ He inhales sharply and doesn’t exhale for a good few seconds. His shoulders are being bumped and pressed against by others, and he thinks he hears Minseok or Sehun in his ear, but he makes no gesture to respond.

It’s there, it’s really there, in official print with his actual name. _Jongin, I’m Jongin._ His hand is grabbed by someone, fingers intertwining with his. Snapping him out of his daze, he sees Sehun watch him with confused eyes. “Jongin!” he says, voice rushed and bubbly. “You’re...oh my, you’re Myrtha! Or Myrth I guess! Oh my God, you’re a big role, you’re...” Sehun crushes him in a death hold, skinny arms wrapping around him and giving him a squeeze.

“Hey, Sehun!” Minseok points to the end of the sign. “It says you’re listed as Jongin’s understudy.” Sehun ignores him and only tightens his hold on him.

“Sehun...?” Jongin unconsciously puts his arms around Sehun’s waist as well, his heart lodged in his throat. “You’re not...I mean, you’re not _mad?_ ” _You’re not upset with me? Please, please don’t be upset with me._

_I love you too much._

“Why would he be mad?” Minseok asks, his arm slung around Soojung. They both look pleased, their names settling right under the label _Wilis._ “Oh man, Jongin! I’m so proud of you, holy shit. This just might be your big break!”

“No,” Jongin shakes his head, face still pressed against Sehun’s shoulder. It’s not a rare sight, it’s not; the theatre has been so accustomed to Jongin clinging onto his friends, as if they would disappear if he doesn’t. “At the end of the day, I’m still a coryphee member.”

“Jongin-ah,” Sehun whispers into his ear. His voice is softer now, but it still holds so much pride in him that Jongin’s heart breaks. “I’m so _proud_ of you. And a little hurt, did you really think I’d be upset? With what?”

“I just thought you’d hate me,” Jongin admits. “Even though Chanyeol-hyung said you wouldn’t, but the whole role thing...”

Soojung gushes, clasping her hands together, her bracelets clinking together. “So _cute,_ ” she breathes out with a giggle stringed to it. “That’s our Jongin, now go show them who you really are, and get those rude assholes fucked!” Minseok eyeballs her with a squint, and she clears her throat. “I mean, do your best?”

The crowd ceases to muffled breathing when someone whistles. “Chit-chat over you little _music boxes._ Now scat!” Siwon shouts over them, stroking his beard with a glint to his eyes. “Those in the roles listed, I want you to all meet at the Fonteyn studio in five! Waste any time and the doors will shut on you.”

“Go,” Sehun mouths to him, giving his hands one final squeeze. His cheeks are rosy, and he waves goodbye. “Don’t want to be late, okay Jongin? Go be a badass and live up to your new role.”

Jongin can’t help but think he sounds slightly sad.

 

♕♕♕

Jongin has heard about these things. The secret circle of the main dancers, of how they gather in the Fonteyn studio, eyeing each other up with a daunting glint to them. Perhaps Luhan was just trying to scare him back then—but Jongin isn’t so sure when he’s nearing the studio doors. For the first time, he feels rather _naked,_ with his tights and dance belt, and his love bites. It’s not like he’s strangers with the other role dancers, but he might as well be today.

Seulgi is already there when he slips through the door, already pulling herself through the barres with hasty steps. She doesn’t notice when Jongin comes in, her back facing him, and he can see all of the outlines of bare bones saying hello. _Seulgi doesn’t like me,_ he reminds himself, and sits down to avoid any awkward situation.

Pressing a hand to his chest, he finds himself already breaking sweat. _Oh no,_ he groans internally. Taking the medications were a precaution, not a safety net. “Calm down,” he whispers to himself, curling up against the cold mirror for support. Seulgi seems to catch on the fact that there’s someone else in the room because she stops her stretches and looks over.

“So it is true,” she hums, her elf-ears sticking out. It’s not as big as Chanyeol’s, Jongin thinks, but they're soft and have an almost fairy-like look to them. Seulgi is clad in all black, the only exception in her flats. “I can’t believe it, seeing you as Myrtha.”

Jongin flinches, and she catches onto it as well. “It’s not a bad thing, I swear,” she drawls, even if she doesn’t sound like she means it. “Just _surprised,_ that’s all. It’s a really powerful role, you know Jongin? There’s a burdensome dance to the scene you’ll do, are you sad enough for it?”

 _Yes._ “I don’t know what you mean...”

Seulgi narrows her eyes into slits when the doors opens again, Luhan striding in with his shirt so long that it falls just above his knees. Jongin’s eyes lights up, watching the older man stroll towards him with a certain drop to his walk. Something is off, though.

“Are you bitching off again?” Luhan asks gleefully, his eyes steady on Seulgi. She draws back, hunching her shoulders together so that she looks like a bird—one of those near dead ones. “Don’t, honey. I have a hangover and I really don’t want a yapping whore in the morning.”

“You...” she seethes.

“Hyung!” Jongin grabs onto Luhan’s hand quickly, trying to pull him out of the tense situation. “Have you done your stretches yet?” The urgency in his eyes seems to waver Luhan, because he shuts his mouth and looks away from the red-faced Seulgi.

“Of course not,” Luhan whispers against his ear when he settles down, bruised lip brushing past hot skin. “I have _sores_ from last night, darling.” He grabs a fistful of Jongin’s shirt just to release it, a tease to his mouth. It even manages to flatter the injury on his face.

“We didn’t even have...” Jongin struggles with his words, wondering if Seulgi is staring at them with her hard eyes. Jongin blushes, but leans into him. _I just want to hold you, hyung._ “You know.”

“I know what?”

“The word,” Jongin whispers. “The thing.”

Luhan is awfully amused by this, the way his eyes are tilted down on him, hands running back and forth on his skin through the tights. Seulgi is most definitely staring at them now, and he wonders what sort of rumors will spread this time.

“Tell me, what’s the word?”

Jongin huffs out, not out of frustration but just defeat. He presses his face into Luhan’s chest and buries his nose in it. He smokes of cigarettes again, and maybe an unfamiliar cologne. “ _Sex._ We didn’t have the...the sex. But everyone keeps thinking...”

“Let them think.”

“Hyung.”

Luhan coaxes him to pull away from him, and grabs his chin. His thumb is so rough against baby skin. “I’d fuck you anywhere you want, Jongin. _My,_ Jongin. And they can think it so, whether we fuck or not.”

“But we didn’t,” Jongin mumbles. He thinks back to how upset Sehun was this morning, and he looks away from Luhan. “And Sehun-ah, he got sad again. He looked like he was going to cry when he saw the _thingys._ ” Jongin points at his neck, and he wonders how long it will take this time for them to fade.

“Sehun looks best when he cries.”

“You don’t mean that Lu.”

The doors open again, but it’s not Yixing. Chanyeol, in a neat collared shirt hurries in, a white coat looking like it was tailored for his long body. He squints through his glasses, and Jongin makes eye contact with him, confused. Chanyeol clutches a clipboard close to his chest and makes a hesitant wave. Dr. Yubin hangs around behind him, her roots in full black against her bleached hair. It suits her, though, because her smile makes up for it.

“Not this bullshit,” Luhan says under his breath, tugging off his legwarmers with a huff.

“What?” Jongin asks, blinking rapidly. Is Luhan not happy to see Dr. Yubin and Chanyeol? _But they’re both kind people,_ he thinks. “What’s wrong?”

Even Seulgi looks a little ruffled up, her shoulders up and high and squeezed against herself. “You remember the _Wonderland_ ballet a few weeks ago? And the weight and nutrient appointments. Guess what, the main dancers gets the worst of it.” Luhan’s voice is dry when he talks, his left eye twitching in the way that it always does when he’s upset.

“Oh...” Jongin pretends he doesn’t see how ashy Luhan’s face turns, knowing that the latter will flip out should he mention it. “It’s Chanyeol hyung this time, not Dr. Lim. I know you don’t uh, _like her,_ Lu.”

“She’s a bitch,” Luhan spits, and Dr. Yubin hears them both, because she turns them with a raised eyebrow, her eyes trained onto Luhan. “No concept of _personal space._ ” The doors open again, and Yixing and Joonmyun both are walking side by side. This seems to take the fury out of the Luhan’s face because he stares at Yixing with an unreadable expression.

Yixing makes eye contact with Luhan, and makes an easy smile. “Luhan,” he calls out, and all attention in the room goes to him. “We’re main dancers, _again._ ” When Yixing advances towards him, Jongin notices a cut on his chin, looking out of place on his otherwise unmarried complexion.

“Lovely,” Luhan snips. “We’re always together.” Yixing sits down next to him, knees brushing knees.

“Well, it’s friendship.”

“Well, it’s fucking something.”

Yixing disregards his remark and turns to Jongin. He smiles again, even if Jongin knows it’s not for him. “Jongin-ah,” he coos, hands outreached to grab a hold of his face. Jongin squirms under his grasp, because they’re so bony and _cold_ against him.

_It feels a little wrong._

“Don’t touch him,” Luhan mutters, eyes leveled on Yixing. “Don’t touch my Jongin.”

“You’re always claiming everything and everyone as yours,” Yixing says airily. “You never share.” Jongin averts his eyes, wanting to reach up and push Yixing’s hands away. But he doesn’t, and just sits there. Luhan, however, grabs Yixing by the forearm and jerks him away, bruised lip quivering, his yellow and damaged knuckles shaking.

Jongin stands up, the tension getting to him. Being caught in the middle of an argument he doesn't understand makes him sick. He expects Luhan to be red in the face, and Yixing to laugh. Except they don’t—Lu’s face impassive and almost gentle, and Yixing just looks sleepy.

“Where are you going Jongin-ah?” Yixing asks, his arm still tightly grasped by Luhan. “Let’s talk about our _roles._ ”

“I’m going to get a drink of water,” Jongin says meekly. It’s a lie, because there are at least three bottles of water in his bag, but he’s not going to say anything about it. “My throat is really dry.”

“Jongin.”

Ignoring Luhan, he feels a bit queasy. There’s something off today, he can feel it. Chanyeol sees him rushing towards the doors, and Dr.Yubin steps in front of him. “Ah, Dr. Yubin,” Jongin clears his throat. “I just want water, and I’ll be quick.”

Yubin nods understandably, but doesn’t move. “I wouldn’t advise that,” she says in a low voice, eyes flickering over to Joonmyun. He’s busy talking to Chanyeol, holding the clipboard and flipping through them carelessly. “I’m just in the medic area but you wouldn’t want to miss this get-together, especially with Joonmyun around. He can be...”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Dr. Pa...I mean, _Chanyeol,_ should have some bottled water in his bag, you can ask him when he’s done?” suggest Yubin, strands of blond hair falling over her face. Jongin nods, though tentative. The Fonteyn studio is too stuffy, and he just really wants to get out of here.

_This is your only chance._

“Hey,” Dr. Yubin beckons Chanyeol over. Joonmyun looks up from the clipboard, his collared shirt seemingly ironed crisp for once. He grins at Jongin and turns his back to him. “Chanyeol, I think Jongin wants water. And he seems a little ill, you won't mind giving him some breathers before we begin?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Chanyeol eyes Jongin with concern, hurrying over to his bag. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice softening.

“Your voice always changes,” Jongin blurts out. “I mean, it sounds different when you talk to different people.”

Chanyeol looks a tad bit confused, but then realization breaks his mold, and he raises his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, you mean that.” He hands Jongin the bottle of water and Advil, hands pressed against his. “It’s just that my Korean stumbles a lot, and it’s embarrassing. I wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of Dr. Yubin and the rest.”

Jongin cocks his head. “Do you like Dr. Yubin?” he asks quietly, keeping his voice below his tongue so the rest don’t hear. Chanyeol jerks back, as if Jongin had hit him. “I didn’t mean to startle you hyung.”

“You didn’t and no, I mean, _no,_ I don’t like Yubin like that.” Chanyeol presses two fingers to his lips, signaling for Jongin to hush down. “She’s uh, a very nice and pretty colleague. But I don’t like her like that?”

“Oh, okay.”

Silence pursues, and Jongin can feel Luhan’s eyes on him. He shudders, turning his face aways and burying it into the bottled water. “Hey, are you okay?” Chanyeol asks again, putting his hands on Jongin’s shoulders, squeezing it. It eases Jongin out of his discomfort, because he melts against the older man. It startles Chanyeol though, because he stumbles with a surprised ‘ _huh?’._ Chanyeol still holds onto him firmly. “Jongin? What’s wrong?”

“I’m nervous,” Jongin rasps. “I’m in a room with such _beautiful_ dancers and they’re all…” _skinnier. Better. Powerful. Pretty._ “ I don’t feel like I can do it.” _Stronger, thin, kings, queens, beautiful, deadly, good—they’re everything I’m…_

_Not?_

By now, even Joonmyun is looking at him. The director says nothing though, a brittle smile settles between his lips as he continues talking to Yubin. Chanyeol looks back at them and frowns. “Don’t do that to yourself,” Chanyeol whispers, his voice catchier and breathy when he’s not so loud.

“You’re a _great_ dancer, Jongin. I’ve seen your dedication through your injuries and God, you’re so good and you don’t realize it.” Chanyeol’s grip on his loosens, and Jongin wishes that it doesn’t. “Listen, I’m not much, but I’m here? I’m not as great as the ballet dancers in this room, but I hope you can turn to me if you need it.”

_But you’re so great, hyung._

“Thank you,” Jongin shuts his eyes, nodding. He downs the pill quickly, water dribbling down his chin as he hurries back to Luhan. He turns around and searches for a smile from Chanyeol, and he gets it. Luhan stares at him with a dull to his eyes, and Yixing is beside him, face full on with a joy that seems a little cheap. “I had a headache,” he mumbles to Luhan, and the latter just nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Seulgi scoots closer to the other three on behalf of Joonmyun, her sharp elbows bumping with Jongin. “I’m not going to waste myself any time,” Joonmyun says, voice chipped and signatured with his grin. “You all know each other, Seulgi to Luhan, Luhan to Yixing, Yixing to…ah, _Jongin._ ”

Jongin winces.

“We’ll weigh you for today, then Dr. Park and Dr. Yubin will meet with you.” Joonmyun makes a gesture to the two, and Jongin wants to reach out to the tall man who pales at the _doctor_ part. “Cooperate or not, I don’t care. It’s your health. Just don’t ruin my shows.” Seulgi gulps, but keeps her eyes on the floor, refusing to waver.

Chanyeol and Yubin appear by Joonmyun’s side. Chanyeol looks down at his clipboard with a forced smile. “I’m Chanyeol Park, and I’ll take care of Luhan and Seulgi.” Luhan’s face withers at the mention of his name, his eyes crinkling down to a narrow and his lip scar more pronounced under the black and blue of it.

Yubin looks over at Yixing and Jongin with a nod.

Joonmyun snaps his fingers together, and grabs the pen by his ear. “Okay, we’re on borrowed time—hurry before God asks for it back. There will be a banquet next week to introduce this season’s new ballets. Show up or don’t, if you do, the bar is free for you to get drunk off.” He winks at Luhan, who just blinks back. “I will meet with each of you separately to discuss characterization. That is all, I’ll leave you in the hands of this lovely _flowers._ ” He makes an exaggerated motion towards Yubin and Chanyeol, before disappearing behind the doors, as quickly as he came in.

Luhan stands up, his shoulders hunched. His eye twitches at the sight of Chanyeol, his lips tutting out like he has a cig in between. “I’m healthy,” he deadpans. “Just check me off like you already met with me.”

Chanyeol’s face falls. “I can’t do that, Luhan.”

Dr. Yubin rolls her eyes and points her clipboard towards Lu. “Cooperate today,” she says firmly. “Chanyeol-ssi here is new, don’t give him trouble.”

“No special treatment,” Luhan says lightly, grabbing his bag. “I’ll do stretches, and he’ll say that I’m at a good weight and that I’m fine for the role. Right, _Dr. Park?"_

“Lu-hyung,” Jongin says slowly, feeling the tension between them. Seulgi is just staring at her thighs in silence. “Please just go check up with Chanyeol-hyung.” Luhan looks back at him, as if betrayed. Part of Jongin wants to apologize, but the other half reminds him of the bathroom in their little home; meant for bad secrets that Lu always keeps.

Yixing stands up, wraps his arms around Luhan, lips so close to his ear that it seems almost too intimate. “Just go, little king,” he murmurs, even though everyone in the room can hear his whispering voice. Luhan raises his brows at the touch, but Yixing keeps running his hands up and down Luhan’s sides, teeth clenched. “You _owe_ me.”

Luhan grits his teeth. "I owe you a lot of things now, huh, love?"

Seulgi jerks up, obviously annoyed. “I’ll go first,” she bites out, glancing over at Chanyeol. “One of us has to stop acting like a little brat.”

“Shut up, sweetheart.” Luhan’s face darkens. “Do whatever you want, Seulgi. I have _your_ role.” She tenses up, but her lips seal into a thin line. Yubin exhales sharply, sounding exasperated as she always is.

“You’re adults, not adolescents, start acting like one,” she snaps. Chanyeol looks a little wary, staring at the group of dancers _._ Yubin turns to Yixing and Jongin, eyes slanted. “Please, Jongin, cooperate with me? Let’s not waste the time that we don’t have.” Jongin nods, looking over at Luhan with a plea in his eyes. He flickers over to Chanyeol, who is staring at Luhan’s yellow knuckles, the callouses all white.

“Lu,” Jongin starts, but Yixing grabs him by the elbow and pulls him along, much to Luhan’s protest. Except there’s so little he can do, especially with Chanyeol trying to soothe him over with kind gestures. Yixing mutters something in Mandarin to Jongin, even if they both know that he can’t understand.

“Just leave your little hyung alone,” Yixing says in Korean, Yubin too busy flipping through papers to listen. He offers Jongin a kind face, with his dimple showing and his eyes all bright. There's something off-putting to them, but Jongin can’t pinpoint it. “It’s your first big role in a big ballet, don’t let Luhan ruin it for you.”

“Lu won’t ruin it for me.”

“He has ruined many things, Jongin.”

Jongin lets Yixing drag him by the arm, even if he just wants to recoil from everything and sleep.

 

♕♕♕

The sound of the scale scares him the most.

Jongin has heard many things—the worst nights, where Sehun is just too sad for anyone to care, his sobs hurting Jongin in his heart. His ears had twitched at the sound of his sister mumbling, lips coated in liquor. It even challenges the little tale of Luhan, who coughed up his lungs when he thinks the rest are asleep. However, the _scale_ is the most dreadful thing to Jongin, the way it drops against metal and metal.

Yubin presses Jongin against the scale, muttering the basics and instructions that he knows all too well. “Your dance belt and clothing are light, so you won’t have to remove those. I’d like for you to remove your flats, though. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.” Jongin can feel Yixing staring at him, crisscrossed against the row of seats in the room. Dr. Yubin runs the scale across, standing back to squint at the numbers. He shakes, wondering if the numbers will too high or too low; should it dare to bump up too much for him to handle. Dr. Yubin sighs, tapping her pen against her cheek.

“You’ve shed too much weight since your last check in.” Dr. Yubin looks at him disappointingly. “Your last check-in was last week. You’ve lost an unhealthy amount.” Jongin jerks back as if Yubin had slapped him. He nearly stumbles off the scale, his bare feet cold against the metal.

“That’s not possible,” Jongin says hoarsely. He puts a hand on his stomach, running his fingers against the bones that tie him up. Yixing perks up, his sleepy eyes finally lighting up. Yixing keeps his head resting on his hand, seeming as if he’s watching a puppet show. Jongin continues to shake his head, each turning more and more rapid. “Please don’t make me eat more.”

Yubin sets her clipboard down and puts her hands out to calm a rattling boy down. “Have you been managing your stress lately?” she asks quietly, her red lipstick even brighter up close. Jongin lets her hold him, because these days hands are always grabbing him.

“I haven’t been stressed,” Jongin says, feeling a bit lightheaded. He remembers the last time he had to gain a few pounds on him, because male dancers needed more strength than the girls. It’s to hold the girls up, Joonmyun always said, you have to be stronger. Eating bigger meals took a lot out of him, especially when Sehun and Luhan skipped theirs.

Yixing stands up abruptly, his shoulders thrown back and careless. “I’m going to the bathroom,” he says, a knowing look in his eyes, “Don’t worry, Dr. Yubin. I won’t run away.”

Yubin looks back at Jongin tiredly, running a hand through bleached hair. “Thankfully that since it has only been a week, a chunk of that weight loss is water weight. But the rest probably had been taken from your body, so I need you to meet up with either Dr. Kim or Chanyeol.” She scrawls something across the paper, perhaps a note. “Don’t you worry, it’s not as bad as last time, okay? I just need you to check in with me in the next few days to reprint your weight again.”

“O-okay,” Jongin stammers. Without knowing, he sighs of relief. _It’s not so bad,_ he thinks. “I’m sorry, Dr. Yubin.”

Yubin nods. “It’s alright. You’re one of the better cases in this company.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “I think Joonmyun will be glad that you’re less of a hassle for this season.” He knows she means it as compliment, so he takes it as such. He clutches his ballet flats close to his chest, Yubin’s faint voice telling him to go sit down while she chases after Yixing.

_Have you been managing your stress lately?_

Yixing appears with a gruff appearance. Yubin, with her hand on his back, as if to hold him down. “I can go to the scale myself,” he says. Yixing keeps his eyes matching with Jongin, unreadable and lazy. Jongin tries to look away but doesn’t, because there’s something in the man that put him at the center of his attention. Yubin is cautious, keeping her hands ready should Yixing step off the scale and call it off.

“And just stand right there, Yixing.”

“Of course.”

She frowns, looking over at Jongin to see if they’re hiding any secrets in between each other—that’s what Jongin wants to know, too. “Your weight is perfectly healthy,” Yubin informs him, sounding dubious. “You’re fine for this week, Yixing. Decent start.” That’s a lie, they all know.

Yixing’s smile broadens, and he hops off the scale, the metal box rustling as he leans against the wall. Yubin keeps her trained eyes on him, but that’s it. “That’s good, then. I of course, always stick by the weight plan. Isn’t that right, Dr. Yubin?” he asks rhetorically.

Yubin blinks. “I’ll go get your plans for this ballet. Joonmyun has specific instructions.”

“Carry on!” Yixing beams, winking at Jongin. “I’ll keep little Jonginnie company, isn’t that right?”

“Y-yeah.”

When the doctor leaves, Yixing’s poker face returns. Pressing two bony fingers to his lips. Jongin sits up, wary of the way Yixing is studying him. He brings his knees up to his chest trying to comfort himself, but it helps little. Yixing peers through the door, as if second-guessing Yubin. “Lovely,” he breathes out, relieved. Looping two fingers into the band of his tights, he wiggles his pants off. His fingers claw at the band of his tights and exposes translucent skin.

“Yixing—”

“Shush,” he snips back. “Be a good boy for me and don’t say anything, or that little white-coat twig is going to come back.” He sticks a hand into his dance belt, and Jongin looks away. The last thing he sees is Yixing’s wrist disappearing into his _underwear,_ for lack of words. “Don’t have sick thoughts, Jongin. Even if Luhan is suggestive at times.” There’s some laughter in Yixing’s voice, and Jongin wants to hide.

He hears some more rustling, and a few heavy objects landing on the floors. Yixing coughs, and rolls up his tights back up to his stomach. Waiting for a few moments, Jongin looks up through the space between his fingers. Four rolls of coins, perfectly tucked in the paper wrapping lies on the floor.

“Little Jongin having little bad thoughts?” Yixing asks, suppressing a chuckle. “What did you think I was doing? With my hand in my underwear?”

Jongin’s cheeks are flushed. “Nothing!”

Yixing just shakes his head, bending over to pick up the rolls of coins. “Won’t you keep my secrets, then? Don’t tell _anyone,_ not even your precious Lulu.” He winks again, only, this time, it’s deliberately slow. “And I’ll owe you. Next time you need a weight check-in, I’ll help you out,” Yixing waves the rolls of coins around. “These. Works like a charm.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Then it’s better that way.” Yixing shrugs on his jacket. “If Yubin asks, I’m going for a walk.”

Maybe Jongin is supposed to stop the man from walking out the door.

 

 

♕♕♕

The perks of having a dead phone means that there’s no one to call him.

Jongin collapses against the mirror, chest burning up with exertion. _Just a bit more,_ he thinks, panting hard. The muscles in his legs are crying, and the familiar ache in his ankle is clawing at him to go get a check-in. But that means that he’ll have to get it looked at by either Jongdae or Chanyeol, both of whom are the he last people he wants to face right now. The weight problem pokes him at the back of his head, along with the rolled up wand of coins that Yixing had in his underwear. In a better case, he would’ve used those, too, but God didn’t favor the boy today.

(Or any days, so to speak)

He rummages through his duffel for a drink, and he feels a bit of his heart shriveling up when only emptied bottles greet him. “Oh no,” he groans, letting his head fall back onto the barres. His stomach roars at him too, as if it things aren’t already shit. _You should eat,_ his petty conscience bites at him.

The studio that was rarely used was named after some no-named ballerina—even Jongin doesn’t recall. But it has a place in his heart, because no one ever checked in it because it is so small and far away in the hall. The only downside to it is that it’s too _cold_ and the lights have a habit of shutting off without much consideration.

The clock on the wall wails a number, _8:07_ PM. Jongin buries his face into a towel, wanting to slump against a body, a _warm_ body, that is. When he shuts his eyes, a blurred thought peeks through the folds of his head, a man with big elf ears and a smile that could set ablaze Dante’s hell. Jongin shivers, shaking his head.

“No,” he murmurs, “not Chanyeol.”

_Sehun?_

_Luhan?_

Jongin tugs at his hair, sweat slicking his fingers when he does so. “I’m just tired,” he talks to no one. “It’s getting late.”

The truth is that he should be in the main studio, stretching alongside with the others. ‘Bonding time’, Joonmyun calls it. He never actually enforces it; even so, Jongin knows them all too well, in skin and ballet flats.

 _Again,_ Jongin pulls himself up off the ground, feeling a headache somewhere in between the blurred vision and sore muscles. _Just a bit more practice, just a little bit more._ Another downside is that there’s no source of music in this forgotten studio, but that’s alright. He knows a thing or two about the Wilis’ dance, seen them himself.

Positioning his feet so that they point outward, he barely gets a kick in the air before a sharp pain jabs at his head, and he stumbles. “Fuck,” he spits out, alarmed. Jongin clamps his eyes shut, arms stretched out like a safety net, even if it fails. Jongin fingers smash against the wooden barres, and maybe it would be a lot more painful had his forehead not slammed into the mirror. In a way, it blinds the lesser pain.

Jongin wheezes, ‘ _God help me please’_ and ‘ _oh, fuck’_ rips apart from his lips and hangs around in the air. _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts hurts hurts,_ his thoughts slapping each other around in his skull. When he open his eyes, white lights courses through his vision like a joke. The tiny studio expands to the size of Myeongdong—Jongin wants to shriek out in laughter. Maybe cry.

“Of course,” Jongin hacks out, holding his hand out to touch the studio. _It’s not real,_ he knows. But it _feels, feels, so_ real. The fingers that battered itself against the barres are numb and purple, as if someone had dropped a crowbar on his fingers. Tears pricks at his eyes, and he tries his best not to cry. Luhan will yell at him if he cries; call him weak.

Wiggling his fingers around, he breathes out too loudly, relieved to see that they’re not broken. He wraps his other hand around his bloodied one, biting down on his lip in an effort to ease the sharp pain that lines his skin. “Not real, not real at all.” Jongin cradles the injured hand close to his chest, blowing hot breath onto the open skin. “It’s just an accident, Lu will kiss it better. He will, he will.”

Jongin sits there for a good twenty minutes, just breathing into his hand against the floor. The effects of his Todd starts to waver, only a headache left behind to occupy his mind. At around the fifteen-minute mark, his hand stops hurting, and he’s just there, curled up against the dirtied floor.

_So tired._

Holding out his hand to the open, he admires it. The crusted blood cracks around his knuckles, and splotches of purples inks the back of his hand. It’s not so much that it hurts, but Jongin wonders if Sehun will get upset, if Chanyeol will fuss, or if Luhan will kiss them better. He remembers when he was seven, and his oldest sister had to pull little bits of glass out of his knee. His Todd was worse back then, a trip to the emergency room every few months or so because it was _too much._

Jongin too, had become ‘ _too much’_ for his sisters.

He keeps his hand to his chest, propping up his elbow so that it won’t hurt as bad. Back facing the mirror so he doesn’t see what kind of dread he looks like. Jongin presses his uninjured hand against the barres, bracing himself through unstable breaths. “Again,” he wheezes out, even if there’s no one here. “Just a little longer.”

  
He bends his knees forward, and they scream in a dull pain that plead with him to go to the physio. Dismissing the ache as quickly as it had come, Jongin stretches over, pretending that he doesn’t see himself in the side mirror, forehead bright red in a cut and eyes clouded.


	9. The Losers

“Oh my God!”

Jongin winced, “Soojung, please don't yell.” He points to his ears, and tugs on them for effect. “It hurts when you do.” Soojung clamps a hand over her mouth, but her brows remain furrowed in concern. He lets Soojung fuss over him, her fingers poking and brushing against his hands. He pulls back when she presses too much pressure on it.

“I’m sorry,” she squeaks. “Holy God, what happened? Did someone hit you?” she gasps, eyes widening by a margin. “ _Did Luhan do this to you?_ ”

It sounds almost dirty when she says it.

“Soojung, no!” Jongin exclaims, taken back. They’re in the empty corridor, and Jongin should be in the main studio with the rest—emotional bonding time, Joonmyun dubs it, but Yixing calls it group therapy—and Soojung should be with the rest of the corps, going over the ballet. “I just fell against the mirror.” _Again._ “No one h-hit me, oh God, no one.”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Soojung makes him sit down, his sore back collapsing against the cold walls. Jongin finds it convenient how Soojung always carries a bag around with her, a habit she had picked up from Sooyeon, even if no one points it out. A dancer’s bag is his secret; an unwritten motto of the Seoul Theatre. Jongin’s thoughts trail back to his locker room, where his duffel is laid out opened with just clothes and painkillers. Maybe in better years, he’ll keep his secrets in the front pocket of his bag, but for now it’ll remain empty.

“I don’t really want to go to them,” Jongin admits weakly. “Dr. Yubin found out I lost weight and they’ll put me on a weird plan for the week and I _can’t,_ not now, not with my new role and I don’t like their food plans. It’s…it’s weird.”

Soojung frowns. “Your cheeks are a lot more prominent lately,” she points out. “Sure, that could be appealing but you seem so bony lately. Are you really okay, though? I’m just a bit worried.” She pinches his cheek with her fingers, eyeing small patch of dried blood on his forehead. “You know you’re like a cute brother to me.”

“I know.”

“So are you?”

“I’m okay.” Generic answer, as always.

Soojung sighs. “It’s going to be infected if you don’t treat it soon. I have bandages, but they're not going to do much on their own. You _really_ have to go get it properly prepped up, my cheap band-aids aren’t going to promise any healing power.” She pushes his hair back, her face vulnerable so that Jongin can see the sleepless nights reflecting in her skin. “Plus, Sehun is going to bitch at me if he finds out. Let me guess, you don't want me to tell him either?”

“Don’t tell Sehun, or Luhan. Don’t tell Chanyeol-hyung, either.” Jongin says it with such haste that Soojung raises her brows.

“Why Chanyeol? Afraid he’ll write you down?” she asks, letting the name slide off her tongue.

Jongin’s shoulders slump, the name _Chanyeol_ feeling too foreign at the moment. “I feel like he expects something of me. Like I’m supposed to be injury-free. Healthy? He’s Yoora’s brother, you know? I’d really hate to disappoint him.”

Soojung’s lips curves downward even more. “But Jongin, you’re supposed to be injury-free, healthy, too. You seem to think highly of this Chanyeol, huh?” she presses, trying to make light of the situation. “He’s cute, too bad he’s kind of old, you know?”

“Old?” Jongin asks, and his voice manages to crack with the one word. “You think hyung is cute?”

Soojung giggles. “Of course he is. His height is so nice, he’s taller than Sehun _and_ you! His voice too, it makes me melt when I’m in the physio.” She snaps her fingers. “He’s so cool and cold. Makes him interesting. Too bad he’s way too old.”

 _But he’s not cool,_  Jongin thinks with a smile, _and most definitely not cold. Hyung is a puppy._ “Twenty-nine isn’t so old,” he argues. “Lu is twenty-nine as well!”

“Too old for me,” Soojung pouts. She shakes her head, running a hand through her ponytail. “Minseok is going to kick my ass if we spend any more time here. I’ll bandage you up, but _promise, promise, promise_ me you’ll disinfect it at home? Ugly bruises aren’t pretty, especially on you.”

“I promise.”

Soojung hurries to the end of the corridor, and Jongin is left with four band-aids—three on his knuckles and one Pororo on his forehead. Unsure what to do, and where to go, he just wanders back to the main wing, where most of the offices are. This is the most dream-shattering hall of the theatre, because of the rooms are stacked with files to remind him that ballet is more than just dancing; it’s paperwork, insurance, and injuries.

He passes by Joonmyun’s room, surprised to see his hair unstyled and hanging into his eyes, typing away furiously. Jongin knocks on the wooden frame of the door, and Joonmyun looks up. For the first time in what seems like a long while, Joonmyun looks gentle. It isn’t to say that he has a bitch face on the rest of the time, but it’s usually so rehearsed and _fake._ Caught off guard, Joonmyun nods for Jongin to let himself in.

“It’s you,” Joonmyun muses. “I heard from Seulgi that you weren’t at the little bonding session. Not wanting to bond with the rest? Are they too much for you?”

Jongin shakes his head. “It’s not that. I just…wanted extra practice beforehand. I need to match with them but they’re all so much better.” He knows he sounds too wistful, but he can’t help it. Joonmyun’s eyes flickers to the busted knuckle. Jongin shoves it in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, but it’s too late.

“You know,” he starts, spinning around in his leather chair. “There are three kinds of people in this world. I’m talking like, the universe, not just our theatre. There are the doers, the liars, and the losers. Maybe a mix of two or all three, who knows. But can you categorize yourself into one, Jongin-ah?”

“I’m not sure if I can…”

“Just try.”

Jongin’s words start to catch along his throat. “The l-losers.” That sounds about right.

Joonmyun looks amused, but when is he not? “And what makes you think like that?”

Jongin shrugs, hoping it’ll suffice for an answer. And it does, sort of.

“I have a little homework for you, then.” Joonmyun leans against his desk, eyes flickering up and down at the recent bruises on his forehead and hand. “Do you know what a _heartbreak_ is? Like, have you truly had a heartbreak?” Joonmyun doesn’t wait for an answer. “It can range from relationships to goals you haven’t achieved. So have you?”

Jongin hesitates. “My heart breaking?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know.”

Joonmyun shrugs halfheartedly. “Then find out. It’s your homework. You dance like you’re already sad, but I want it more powerful than that. Stronger than tragic.”

_My homework?_

“Okay,” Jongin says mindlessly. He’s about to leave when Joonmyun coughs, albeit a fake one.

“You’re quite different lately,” Joonmyun says, forcing the younger boy to look back at him. When he does, he sees the genuine curiosity In Joonmyun’s gaze. Jongin opens his mouth to apologize, but Joonmyun is quicker than him, already holding up a finger to signal, ‘ _hey, shut up.’_ “It’s not necessarily a bad thing, you know. Being different. It’s just something I noticed.”

“I’m not sure what you mean director…”

Joonmyun pauses, as if taking in account of everything. Jongin shifts around in his position awkwardly, unsure what to say, what to do. “You lie a lot more,” he says bluntly. “You’re actually making eye contact with me right now. Which, I’ll have you know, is actually astounding.” Joonmyun clasps his hands together theatrically, his crisp dress shirt showing off a coffee stain when he stands up.

“I’m sorry,” Jongin says meekly.

Joonmyun pouts. “Aw, drat. Not _everything_ is different. You start and end every single sentence with an apology..” He throws his head back, and Jongin sees his true age under all that young skin. “You’re going to die with ‘ _sorry_ ’ on your lips too, I bet.”

“I…”

“Company closing times are soon. Pack up with your pretty boy and Sehun and head home to rest. You’ll need it.”

 

 

♕♕♕

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“I’m really tired Sehun.”

“I didn’t see you for lunch or dinner. Have you eaten?”

“Sehun-ah, I’m really fine.”

“Don’t fucking shit with me. Is that _blood_?”

“Sehun!”

“Jongin, what the hell is up with you lately?”

“I’m fine, oh God, I am fine! Don’t touch me, please. I’m really fine, so stop. There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m not… _stop thinking I’m weird,_ Sehun!”

“Jongin I never said that—”

“I’m tired Sehun.”

“Jongin, I’m begging you, don’t keep secrets from me. We’re best friends, practically brothers. Don’t do this to me.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll try harder.”

“Stop saying that.”

 

 

♕♕♕

The birds don’t chirp in the winter, and they certainly never sing in this neighborhood. The old wise guy down the street says it’s because of the vaccination clinic that the birds don’t come—because Mother Nature says fuck you—but everyone knows he’s on some kind of high. But even if the morning birds don’t wake him up, Sehun does.

Jongin can feel his breath on his forehead, lanky fingers coursing through his tangled hair. He’s long since given up on brushing it, because the combs are always misplaced. _If I pretend to sleep,_ Jongin wonders, _will he go away?_ He feels a stab of guilt and finds himself responding to Sehun’s loving touch by fluttering his eyes open.

Sehun looks up, alert. It takes no genius to see the lack of sleep burned against his skin. “Mornin’, you.” Sehun gulps, his voice throaty thanks to his dry mouth. “Did you pull extra bones again?”

Jongin blinks lazily, trying to ease the sleep out of him. Wordlessly, he scoots over in the already too-tight bunk bed, patting the now empty space. Sehun gets it after a little bit, curling his skinny body against skin and wool. He digs his face into the crook of Jongin’s neck, his breath rattling almost painfully. “Extra bones, Sehun? I did, I did.” Jongin wraps his arm around his friend, no, _his brother,_ pulling at the collar of his shirt. Sehun hasn’t changed from yesterday’s clothes, and he has the wrinkles to prove it.

“How are you feeling?” Sehun asks, his words choked.

 _Like shit._ “I don’t know,” Jongin replies honestly, shutting his eyes. The pain in his knuckles is nonexistent now, but the dry skin that surrounds it leaves a memory. Sehun looks up at him, lashes long enough to bat against sharp cheekbones when he blinks. He pulls a free hand up to touch the band-aided cut on Jongin’s forehead, hovering fingers begging for permission.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

Sehun clears his throat. “I’m sorry Jongin. You’ve been under so much stress and it’s just my _fault._ I’ve been paying too much attention to Yoora and I haven’t even talked to you, like a _real, real_ talk. I just…”

“Shh,” Jongin hushes him by covering his mouth. Jongin’s eyes flicker over Sehun’s shoulders, seeing Luhan’s bed neat and untouched. “Please don’t hurt yourself like that, Sehunnie. You deserve to love, and it’s not your fault.”

Sehun chuckles dryly. “I even yelled at you the other day.”

“It’s okay.”

They stay cuddled up like that,a comfortable silence between them as they listen to the ambient sounds of their heater kicking on, the ticking of the wall clock, each of them breathing in unison. Sehun keeps carding his hand through Jongin’s hair sleepily, and the latter traces the tiny scar on the boy’s face.

“Your phone was going off all last night,” Sehun mumbles after a few minutes, maybe fifteen. “I charged it. Don’t worry, I didn’t read them, but a lot of them were from Chanyeol. What happened?”

Jongin’s hand falters on Sehun’s cheek, and he notices. “I have to see him for a weight issue,” he admits, shame crawling up to his cheeks and blooms in red. “I didn’t want to see you or Lu, but Dr. Yubin wants me to see Chanyeol-ah about it, but I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

_He’ll think bad about me._

“Scared.”

Sehun frowns, looking like he wants to say something but holds it back. “Are you sure you trust this guy?” he asks, caution lacing his words.

“Hyung is kind. He’ll help me with my weight, I’m just embarrassed.”

Sehun shakes his head, his matted hair pressing even further into Jongin’s pillow. “I’m not talking about that. He’s just…I’ve _heard_ things about him, Jongin-ah. Things that could hurt you. And I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

“Lying is so bad,” Jongin murmurs. “Hyung has treated me like a friend, Sehunnie. He hasn’t done anything bad. I think those were just rumors.”

Sehun sighs, but says no more. “I trust your judgment.”

“Does it hurt you?” Jongin whispers into the skin of his friend. He doesn’t say anything further, hoping the implication is clear.

Sehun shakes his head, pressing closer to Jongin. “You come first to me, even before ballet to me. You’re like family.”

_Really?_

“Thank God,” Jongin says with a smile, using his fingers to knot through Sehun’s hair. He remembers when they were younger, when they were both the same height and Sehun would always brush his hair at the academy, saying that no girl will ever like him with messy hair. That is until they were both growing stubbles on their chin and Sehun thought more about kissing girls and Jongin, and the phrase turned into ‘ _no boy will ever like him with messy hair’._ “I thought it would hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

_Liar._

“Okay.”

Without much conversation, Sehun drags Jongin by intertwined hands off of the bed and easing him into the bathroom. Muttering all the way to the box where they keep their bandages, Jongin counts the number of cuts he got on his knuckles. They leave the bathroom door open so it won’t get all stuffy, because Luhan’s not home to barge in. “Where’s Lu by the way?” Jongin asks sheepishly, eyes flickering over to the secret cabinet.

“Left the house after you fell asleep,” Sehun replies gruffly. “Don’t worry about what he does, you have enough stress on your mind.”

Jongin sits in the tub dazedly, feeling Sehun’s nudging fingers peel off the old band-aids and replacing them with their plain, boring ones. “Lu needs someone to worry about him,” he protests softly, not wanting to upset anyone again. “Not enough people do.”

Sehun’s blinks. “But does he worry for others, Jongin?”

“I…”

Sehun looks away. “I don’t want to talk about anyone right now,” he admits honestly. “I just want to spend our morning together like we used to, you know? Before Chanyeol, as if Lu doesn’t live with us. Like before.”

Jongin looks at him sleepily, even if he isn’t. “And what was before?”

Sehun shrugs, looking a little nervous. “When we’d ride our bikes down to Hongdae, I know it’s not summer but we did those things. We used to get coffee together, I haven’t done that with you in weeks. And we’d practice in the living room together until we had to leave. I miss those mornings.” Jongin stares at him agape. He hasn’t realized how long it's been since it was just been _him_ and _Sehun._

“Let’s go get coffee then,” Jongin beams. “After we do stretches in the living room, and we’ll ride to Hongdae when it’s warmer.”

Sehun’s grin widens. “What about Yoora’s brother? Don’t you think you should reply to his text messages?” he chuckles awkwardly. “I don’t know about a lot of things, but it seems urgent. Especially with your…”

“—I know. Weight.” Jongin nods weakly. “I’ll be fine.” _You were fine, Sehun. I’ll be fine, too._

The shower continues on, saving enough hot water for the second. They don’t save any for the third, like Sehun insists, because that third person won’t come home anyways.

 

♕♕♕

“Are you going to be okay?” Sehun asks in between sips of coffee. “About your meds and role.”

Jongin shrugs. The drink in his hand is nearly full, whereas Sehun is on his second cup. “I’m hoping to get another appointment, is that okay? Should I? I need stabilizing medicine for the migraines.” The migraines are the only things he can take meds for anyways. They don’t mention Todd, because it hurts to think about.

“I think that would be good,” Sehun nods. “Joonmyun hasn’t mentioned it?”

Jongin gulps a mouthful of bitter coffee. “I’m sure Jongdae-ssi or someone will make me look over things,” he mumbles sulkily. There’s a plate of a half-eaten bagel smothered with whipped cream. A small part of him aches for side dishes and stew, but he settles for a chewy bagel.

“You know you can tell me,” Sehun coaxes him. “You’re going to want to lose weight for your role but you don’t have to; shouldn’t have to.” Jongin nods absentmindedly, but his eyes flicker over to Sehun’s arms. Exposed with his wrist bones protruding out violently, his pale skin tailors him.

 _You’re not one to talk,_ Jongin thinks, but he doesn’t say anything.

Jongin checks his phone in between conversation of their new switch in ballet shoes and bets on who Joonmyun is kissing nowadays. A voice mail greets him at the screen, no more text messages or anything—just a voice mail. But even then, he’s a little bit too scared to listen to it. _Chanyeol will hate me, think I’m a fuck-up. I’m not._ He shoves his phone away before Sehun notices, watching him go on animatedly with his gestures.

“We won’t get to see each other for the next few weeks of practice,” Jongin says, a frown stretching down. “I don’t know how I feel about it. Being away from Minseok, Soojung, and you.” A scratchy voice at the back of his head reminds him that he has Luhan, and Luhan has him. But it’s different, it’s a lot more complicated than who has who.

“You’ll be fine.” Sehun slings his arm around him as they make their way out of the coffee shop, students already huddling against each other at the bus stop. It feels weird that some of them are only one or two years younger than them. “Represent us. Show those prissy principals that corps are just as talented. Just as good.”

“I’ll do my best.” Jongin smiles, locking his hand with Sehun. “I’ll make you and Lu proud.”

“You don’t have to,” Sehun reminds him gently. “Just don’t hurt yourself again. I'm worried about you. You look like someone cut you with a kitchen knife, or punched someone.” Jongin looks down at his knuckles where it clashed with the barres and mirror when he fell. It doesn’t look so bad, a blur of red and faint purple, and perhaps a strip of skin gone from his hand.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Jongin says quickly. “It’s not as bad as before though.” Sehun grimaces, knowing what he means.

“It’s starting to look just as bad though.” They make their way up the street, disappearing off cafe street and into the more college-lifestyle roads; consisting of cheap convenience stores and a sushi place that runs on loans. Soojung always says she never really particularly liked this corner of Yeonhui, saying it looks ‘ _too sketchy at night. The streetlights are too dim here!’_

“But it doesn’t hurt.”

 

♕♕♕

Sehun carries both of their bags, plus Luhan’s, despite Jongin’s protests. “You’ll graze your knuckles on them,” he says, pulling the duffels out of his reach.

“I didn’t break my arms. I can carry it Sehun!” Jongin protests, sticking out his bottom lip, because Sehun has always been rather weak to those. “You’ll hurt your shoulders.”

Sehun jeers, sticking out his tongue. “ _You_ hurt your forehead, your ankles, and your freakin’ knuckles. Don’t you go off lecturing me on what’s going get me bleeding.” He grabs the orange case with funny medical names on them, and presses it into Jongin’s hands. “We’re nearing the theatre. I need you to take your migraine pill first then—,”

“—Then the beta blockers, I know my own medicine Sehun,” Jongin says playfully, grabbing the water bottle along with them. Sehun readjusts all three straps his shoulders, frowning when he grabs Luhan’s.

“Why the hell is his so old?” Sehun mutters, tugging at the zippers. “Hey, isn’t this the same one he’s been carrying for the past seven years?” he asks, even if Jongin can’t give an answer. Sehun flips over the name-tag and cracks a grin. “Damn, it is. Look at that, 2009. Wonder why he’s blowing his money on street shit and drinks instead of a new bag.”

“Sehun!” Jongin hushes him with a whisper. “Don’t be so loud.”

“What? I said street shit, not specifically the _d_ word.”

Jongin sighs, popping a pill in his mouth as they move and swerve in between crowds of bustling people. “You know Lu doesn’t like change. He still has the same cologne because he doesn’t like any other smell.” He tugs on Luhan’s bag, offering to take it again and Sehun denies him _again._ “Do you think he’ll show up?”

Sehun scoffs, opening the back doors to the theatre. “It’s not the first time he’s out in another bedroom.”

Jongin pretends he doesn’t hear. 

 

♕♕♕

“Keep your sweater on,” Ryeowook mutters. “The 9th Hell is being _extra_ bitchy today.” He grabs a fistful of his own fuzzy sweater, adorned with its polka-dots and some English words striped across the middle. Jongin nods, trying his best to tug the sweater down so it’ll cover his crotch. It doesn’t. Jongin fidgets with his hands, pacing back and forth in the already crowded locker rooms.

Yixing eyes him warily. “Are you alright, Jongin?”

Jongin stumbles in his steps. “Y-yeah, hyung, I’m okay.” He flattens down his sweater with his hands, keeping his eyes leveled at Yixing. ‘ _Eye contact makes you strong. Makes you better,’_ Luhan had always said. Yixing tosses his bag over his shoulders, one foot barefoot whereas the other is decked in his flat. “Have you seen Lu-hyung? He left his phone at home and his bag. I was wondering if you saw him last night…”

Yixing restrains a smile. “Luhan has other people.” He’s quick to correct himself at Jongin’s blank look. “Lovers, Jongin, he has other lovers.”

“ _Oh._ ”

“So no, I haven’t seen Luhan.” Yixing pulls extra strands of hair away from his face, staring at the locker walls. “He’ll show up. If anything, he loves the spotlight more than any porn star.”

Oh.

“I wouldn’t be the one to talk anyways,” Ryeowook adds in with an eye roll. “The whole shitty company has their expensive spotlights on you. I heard you threw one of the Doctors in the physio into a frenzy.” Yixing raises his eyes at this, the corner of his lip twitching.

“Leave him alone,” Sehun snaps. “He has enough on his mind.” He grabs Jongin’s hand, but the latter doesn’t budge.

“I’m just saying,” Ryeowook frowns. “You know that new addition right? Cold, tall, looks like an elf? I needed my wrist checked but _he_ told me to wait. Why, because you ran off when you had a weight problem.” Jongin stumbles back, pulling his sleeves down shakily. “I’m not mad, Jonginnie. It’s just weird seeing the Doctor act so warm towards you.”

“I don’t have a w-w-eight problem,” Jongin stammers. Sehun is throwing a glare over at Ryeowook, saying something that Jongin doesn’t really hear. “Hyung, I don’t have a problem.” _No problems, I’m normal, I’m not bad._

Ryeowook blinks. “Weight problems aren’t bad,” he says, looking rather confused. “We all get them.”

Something in Jongin snaps.

“I…”

“Why the hell are you all beating down on the kid?” Yixing asks gruffly, casually slipping on his dance belt. “Don’t take your shit out on him because he got the role you wanted.”

Ryeowook snorts. “I’m not.”

Yixing sighs, rather sharply and without patience. “We’re going to the Fonteyn studio again Jongin.” He glances over at him, noticing the small band-aid on his forehead. He doesn’t say anything, but the curious look he gives Jongin speaks volumes. “Take your bag with you, we’re going to be there for a while.”

Ryeowook turns his back on the rest, rummaging through his locker. Jongin shoots Sehun a look that whispers, ‘ _help me, oh God, help me’._ Reaching over for his duffel bag, he hesitates. The two duffels slumped against each other, both eerily too large to be theirs. “Sehun,” Jongin says hoarsely, pointing at the two bags. “Where’s our bags?”

Sehun furrows his brows. “What do you mean, they’re right there?”

Jongin gulps. “Can you…can you grab mine?” he asks. “I can’t tell.” Realization runs cold across Sehun’s face, and he grabs Jongin’s bag and hands it to him.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Sehun asks quietly.

No. “Yeah.”

Jongin offers a shaky smile, pretending that the things in the locker room aren’t as big as he thinks they are. Following Yixing down the hall, he watches the way he rolls his shoulders back and forth as he walks, like Luhan does. He hurries to match pace with him, rolling up one sleeve and keeping the other one hanging past his hand. “Are we starting rehearsals today?” he asks, trying to make conversation.

“Of the like.” Yixing looks over at him. “Joonmyun likes to go fast. We’re going with Act I today, but don’t feel so lucky yet. Even if you’re Act II, Joonmyun is going to make us go through that today.” Jongin stares at him in awe. “So you better pray that Luhan gets here, or he’ll face a bit of hell from our _sweet lil’ Director._ ”

“He’ll be here soon,” Jongin mumbles. “He always is.”

They enter the studio, and they’re already chilled to their bones. Seulgi is there with Joonmyun, looking rather uncomfortable. Surprisingly, her shoulders collapse in relief when the two other walk in. “Good job for showing up.” He adjusts his glasses and stands up, swinging his arms like a child. “Seulgi, Seulgi. Are you ready to court a man on stage?” he asks teasingly.

Seulgi nods, looking tired. “Yes, Director.” She’s not sporting a tutu of any sort, clad in just tights and a shirt that hangs above her hip.

“I can assume that Lu isn’t here yet?” Joonmyun looks between the two.

“He’ll be here,” Jongin says firmly. “Luhan won’t ever miss ballet.”

“Of course he won’t. He’s being paid to dance.”

 

♕♕♕

Luhan shows up twenty minutes after stretches.

Seulgi glares at him when he walks in, going down on her plies as her lips curls in a snarl. “You’re wasting our practice time. You know we don’t have enough time before the corps go in.” Luhan doesn’t reply to her right away, swinging a string bag across his shoulder in an effort to look like he doesn’t care. Which, he probably doesn’t. Yixing keeps his eyes on him, and Jongin just beams. He’s in different clothes, obvious that he had gone home before coming here.

 _Thank God,_ Jongin thinks absentmindedly. Joonmyun doesn’t say anything, going back to discussing something with Sojin. “Hyung!” Jongin exclaims, scrambling to his feet. Luhan throws his cheap bag on the floor, stripping himself of his sweatshirt so he’s just in a wife beater, his sharp but small shoulders standing out rather proud. “You’re just in time.”

“Just in time?” Seulgi scoffs. “You’re a bit late here.”

Luhan fits on his flats. “Jongin is a corp member. A coryphee.” He looks up through his bangs, trying to pull a reaction out of Seulgi. “What’s your deal with lil corps members? You were one just last year.” Seulgi huffs, pulling her hair back in a half-assed ponytail. Yixing looks entertained, a stark difference from his stoic look.

Joonmyun taps his feet, silencing them all. “Aren’t you going to stretch?” he asks, the question directed at Luhan and his pointe shoes. “That would be, I don’t know, _optimal._ ” It’s not rare to hear him so sarcastic, but it still manages to sound foreign on his tongue.

“Already did. On the subway,” Luhan replies smoothly. He throws an arm around Jongin, catching him off surprise. “Thanks for bringing my bag, sweet cheeks. Saved me from breaking in another pair of pointes. So considerate.”

Jongin’s chest swells at the praise. “You’re welcome, hyung.”

“Well if that’s the case, I want us to get right to it. Jongin, off the scene; I’ll call you in for Act II. I’ll have you go with Sojin. Be sweet to her?” he asks, ushering the small-bodied woman towards Sojin. She nods, cracking a polite smile. Jongin nods about five times too much, Sojin quietly telling him that they’ll go to one of the studios in the lower wing.

“Will Sojin teach me?” he asks earnestly.

“And record,” Joonmyun adds, pointing at the tiny handheld camera in her hand. “I want to see your progress. Remember, I have eyes everywhere.” He points to them, eyes fluttering rapidly for effect. It looks rather disturbing, but he doesn’t tell him that. Luhan looks over at the two, his swollen lip looking better with the blood nearly gone. His eyes say something to Jongin that not even he can decipher.

“Now leave you two, teach him well, Sojin!” Joonmyun calls out as Sojin hurries out the door, Jongin following him. “He’s my precious ballerino!”

Sojin sighs in relief when the doors shut, her small arms falling back in rest against the shut doors. Jongin knows she’s not that old, but the years have made a dent in her, and the lines under her eyes have already made a point. “Thank God,” she breathes out heavily, pulling up her jacket. “Alright, you don’t have to call me instructor or anything.”

“Really?” Jongin asks carefully. “Do I call you noona?”

Sojin shakes her head, the two moving down the halls. “Don’t do that either, it’s fine. I’m basically a retired ballerina at this point, so you don’t have to address me as anything.” Jongin opens his mouth to say something, but clamps it shut when he sees how she shuts her eyes so painfully. “Director Joonmyun goes through ballet dancers like he goes through tissues.”

“Sojin…”

She shakes her head, pulling up her fallen sleeve. “Don’t worry about it. It’s Jongin, right?” he nods. “Just forget what I said.”

 _Let it go._ “Sorry, I will,” Jongin apologizes. “I know you’ll instruct me well.”

Sojin shrugs. “It’s going to be difficult, but the steps are nearly the same for male and female. You’ll just have to…adjust, for lack of a better word.” They pass the wing with the smaller studios, and Jongin swears he sees the familiar tuft of Sehun’s head peeking through one of the windows. “You’ll be dancing with your normal flats, so let’s turn those pointe movements into something even better, you’ll still look as graceful as a female but it’ll be more, should I say—” she doesn’t finish, the two of them stumbling back in their steps in the middle of the hall.

Jongin gets ready to apologize when he looks up, catching both Chanyeol and Jongdae standing a few feet away from them. Jongin bites down on his lip, remembering the number of texts and voicemails on his phone that he hasn’t touched. Chanyeol’s eyes widen, and he nearly drops the file folder in his hand, his knuckles turning white.

“Hyung,” Jongin starts, but the firm look in Chanyeol’s keeps him from saying anything further.

“You were suppose to attend a _scheduled_ appointment with me,” he says slowly, and Jongin recoils. It’s not that familiar tone of his, that reminds him of the Chanyeol with glasses in the clinic, face so warm and gentle. _He’s upset with me._ This voice is cold, too polite.

“It wasn’t urgent,” Jongin whispers, his voice cracking even with the slightest breath. “I’m fine.”

Jongdae notices the way Jongin’s bottom lip violently quivers. He puts a hand on his new colleague. “Chanyeol, let the kid go to his practice. You can reschedule a nutrition fitting for him later today, right, Jongin?” Sojin expresses her confusion by trying to tug on Jongin’s sleeve.

“We should get you into your practice Jongin,” she says under her breath, trying to urge him along.

“I don’t know if he’ll come,” Chanyeol says stiffly. “What happened to your knuckles, and your forehead?” There’s a low-residing panic in his voice, like he’s ready to fall. “Jongin, I’m encouraging you to see me in the physio right now, please.”

“I can’t,” he replies helplessly. “I have practice.”

Sojin grimaces. “I don’t know what this is all about but Jongin isn’t dying, so he can put it off for a few hours.” Jongin nods, and Jongdae just looks wary. “Sorry, Dr. Park.” Jongin sees the way Chanyeol jerks at the title _Doctor_ again. Jongin curls his fingers in, trying to restrain himself from crying out that Chanyeol doesn’t want to be called a doctor.

“Jongin,” Chanyeol looks at him, and all foreign politeness dissolves, and he just looks a little lost. “I really have to talk to you.”

No formalities.

“I need to practice,” Jongin argues, his voice strained. “This is important, hyung.”

Chanyeol sighs, his broad shoulders dropping. “Your health is important, too.”

Somehow, Jongdae manages to pull Chanyeol to the side, saying that he’ll check and chastise Jongin later. Jongdae hands him a wink as he walks past, telling him, “I got this,” and the two medicine-heads disappear around the corner. Chest feeling constricted, Jongin lets out a breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding his breath. Sojin eyes him impatiently, and this is the most emotion Jongin has ever seen her display.

“You’re getting in trouble with the physio?” she asks, no playfulness in her voice. Jongin has picked up that she really only has stress as a default emotion. Sojin shrugs. “It happens. But we need to practice before Director Kim rips both our heads off.” Jongin shudders, even if his mind is still on the hurt look on Chanyeol. _I’m sorry._

He lets the former ballerina drag him off into one of the small studios. It has the essentials, the barres, the mirrors, the piano. “Are we using a tape?”

“Calling in a pianist for this act,” Sojin replies. “You have a big scene, it’s only right you get the big package.”

“This feels like a dream,” Jongin admits faintly. “From corp to…”

“To a studio all to yourself, a pianist, and the spotlight.” Sojin sounds like she’s reciting it, her eyes droopy and sad. “Yeah, it sounds beautiful.” Jongin glances down at her feet, seeing the way she rolls up on onto the flat front of her feet, eyes downcast on the floor like a she’s far away from here. And maybe she is, on another stage where she’s still young.

_I won’t be like that._

The pianist strolls in with a cup of coffee in his hand, face hooded by large sunglasses. “Sorry, hangover,” he calls out, and the other two don’t say a word about it.

 

♕♕♕

“You can take a break now, Jongin.”

Jongin coughs, saliva and water spewing into his arm. His calves are burning, his head feeling too light to be anything easy. “Please, I can go on.” He shoots her a look that spills desperation, his hair wet with his own sweat. It’s not attractive, but that’s not what he’s going for anyways. The pianist himself looks down in the dumps, the coffee cup rolling back and forth on its side for his own amusement. “I haven’t done enough.”

“It’s five in the afternoon,” Sojin sighs. “I’m sure there’s something in the contract saying I can’t have you practice for more than eight hours. It’s been nine.”

Jongin wipes himself down with one of his old t-shirts he keeps in his duffel. “That applies to instructors and officials. You’re a ballet dancer.”

“In an instructor’s place,” she reminds him. “Listen, you got the scene down. We can polish it over the course of the next few weeks, you _have_ those few weeks.” She hits the barres with the flat of her hand, her face tired even if she just expressed three emotions for the past few hours. “I got it recorded, and we can’t do anything until Joonmyun looks over it anyways.”

“Can we do it from the top? Just once more?” he pleas, straightening up.

Sojin’s face softens. “Lack of water in your system. You’re seeing white blurs in your vision right now, huh? And your head aches.” She shakes her head, wiping off her own sweat. “Listen, we both need the break. I haven’t done this scene in years and to tell you the truth—you were more alive in rehearsal than I ever was on that stage as Myrtha.”

“But it’s not good enough.” Jongin can’t find it in him to say anything further.

Sojin pats him on the shoulder. “You seem like a good kid, Jongin. I’ll go tell the Director about your progress. In the meanwhile, you,” she jabs a finger at him, “most likely need to head to the medics. It’s never good to upset those white-coats.” She ushers the pianist onto his own break. “We’ll catch progress time back at the top after dinner.”

“Dinner?” Jongin echoes.

She nods. “Yeah, it’s dinner time. I need you to go refill on your energy before we go back.”

Jongin allows himself to sigh loudly, both the ex-ballerina and the pianist out of the studio. His shirt is sticking to the mirror, the top of his head pressing against the barres. His shoulders weep as he pulls himself off the ground, and he finds that tears pricks at his eyes too. “Oh,” he barely gets out before he collapses against the barres, his arms holding himself upright. He uses his foot to push aside the things in his bag, in hopes in finding an energy bar. None. He groans, straining himself to grab the duffel bag.

“You’ll have to face him,” he tells himself. “Even if…even if he y-yells at you.” His shoulders begs him not to put the weight of the bag on them, so he ends up hugging it to his chest, limping towards the exit doors. It’s times like this that he’s grateful for the lack of heat in the corridors, a blast of chilled air creeping up wet skin. Blurry eyes looking left and right, trying to determine which leads to the medical wing.

Jongin ends up trailing left, seeing the familiar portraits hanging up on the walls. Bingo. He grips his bag firmly, standing in front of the physio room. _Apologize for ignoring the appointment, and his calls, and his messages, and for everything._ Jongin even winces at the thought of so many apologies, but his clammy hand manages to grasp a hold of the knob, turning it open.

The physio has already been one of the more brighter rooms in the hall. Jongin sees the familiar pots of plants lining the shelf full of books on human anatomy and substance abuse. His chest flutters in hope that no one is here, and that it’s a genuine excuse for why he’ll miss his appointment again. But that cheap hope dies along with the fluttering, when Jongin hears the wheels of the desk squeaking against the tiles.

Chanyeol stands up abruptly, eyes wide. “Jongin, wait, don’t leave.” He grabs a hold of the duffel, murmuring soft words to coax it out of his arms. “That looks heavy. Why don’t you sit down?” Jongin blinks, wondering if he’s hearing the elder right.

“Aren’t you going to yell?” he croaks, casting his eyes down at his feet. They look a little red at the sides, results of neglecting his aches and warnings that his ankles are demanding another massage. Chanyeol hesitates, his mouth parting. In the end, he shakes his head no, curling his arms around Jongin’s shoulders, pulling him gently to one of the patient beds.

“Your ankles are hurting,” Chanyeol softly points out. “I’ve been getting better at these lately. Sit down Jongin, before you hurt yourself.”

Jongin doesn’t protest, because he doesn’t have it in him, finding comfort in how careful and gentle Chanyeol is right now. With experienced hands, he pulls at his ankles, looking up at him with a smile.

“Hyung, I have something to say,” Jongin starts, his voice tearing at the ends. “About the messages, I’m sorry I didn’t reply—”

“It’s dinner time,” Chanyeol says calmly. His hands stop in action, and he pulls out a bag from his desk. “I can’t cook, so I picked this up from the diner across the street. Figured you would try to skip your meal again.”

The way he says it scratches and burns.

Jongin’s face ashen, Chanyeol pressing the wrapped up sandwich into his hands. “I need to talk to you,” he says in a low voice. “But eat first, and let me check your ankles, alright?” All Jongin can do is nod, letting him go back to working the ache out of his sore ankles. He has a bit of trouble unwrapping the sandwich, his hands shaking too much.

When he tries to grab the paper wrapping, he misses, over, and over, and over again. _Shit,_ Jongin bites down his lips. Jongin lets his hands drop, dismissing how long and bony his fingers stretch out to be. _I can’t even grab the sandwich,_ he thinks bitterly. Choking down a whimper of frustration, he just stares at the meal in his hand, hoping Chanyeol will let it go.

He doesn’t.

“Jongin,” Chanyeol hands stops moving. “Are you alright?” Jongin doesn’t reply, swallowing down his hiccups and wrapping his own arms around himself, handing his bruised hand behind his sleeves.

“Hey, hey, Jongin. Look at me, are you okay?” Concern laces itself between Chanyeol’s words, making the reluctant boy look up. When he does, he realizes how _close_ his face is to Chanyeol, and he can see all his sweet imperfections, the way his nose slopes.

Unconsciously, Chanyeol raises his hand to wipe wet stains under Jongin’s eyes, and the latter unknowingly crying. Jongin slumps. He needs a hug, but his best friend is several studios down the hall and Luhan is sweating on his pointe shoes. Instead, he just lets himself look up at Chanyeol, eyes wavering.

“Did I say something wrong?” Chanyeol whispers, sounding alarmed. “Jongin-ah, please, what’s wrong?”

“So tired,” it rolls off his tongue like rocks. “I’m so frustrated. I keep getting people upset and I keep doing things wrong and it’s so bad and I just, _it_ keeps happening to me!” Jongin hasn’t realized how loud his voice has gotten, shaking each step of the way. But Chanyeol makes no move to hush him, just eyes him in silence.

“What keeps happening to you?” Chanyeol asks, giving Jongin’s hand a squeeze. He doesn’t even want to look down at his own.

Jongin shakes his head. “I can’t tell you.” He hiccups again. “I’m sorry, hyung.”

_I want a hug._

He hasn’t realized he had voiced his thoughts out loud, until Chanyeol looks taken aback for a few seconds. Jongin shuts his eyes, expecting a no. But his expectations aren’t fulfilled; strong arms enveloping him at his sides, Chanyeol’s chin resting on his shoulders, and they don’t protest this time. Jongin sinks into the touch, grateful for human contact that he’s missed all day. Jongin’s arms find themselves pressed against Chanyeol’s sides, burying his face into the hyung’s shoulder. _I’m so tired, so tired, I’m so thankful._

Chanyeol smells of a gentle cologne, and Jongin wants to sleep against the man.

“Relieve your stress,” Chanyeol murmurs. “I apologize for seeming upset with you earlier.”

_No saying “sorry”, hyung._

“I’m so tired,” Jongin whimpers. Chanyeol starts patting him on the back in a slow rhythm. The food Chanyeol bought for him slipped off his lap and is now sitting on the bed, slumped over on its side. “Hyung, it’s so overwhelming.”

“I know.”

“No one understands,” Jongin hiccups. “They tell me it’s an opportunity but it _hurts so bad._ I’m scared I’ll fail as a main character.”

For some reason, Chanyeol’s hand trails up to his head, stroking him and losing his fingers in between curls. Jongin wishes he’ll keep his hand there forever. “I understand you,” Chanyeol reminds him, squeezing him. “You’re so young, Jongin. I understand you. I promise.”

“Is twenty young?”

Chanyeol chuckles, his laughter much louder and pleasant when close to his ears. “I’m twenty-nine, twenty seems rather young to me.” He pulls away, eyes searching Jongin’s face. When the latter looks down, he nearly let out a sigh of relief when he notices that his Todd attack has dissolved, leaving his hands back to their normal-looking size. “Are your ankles feeling better?”

“Yes, hyung.”

“Are you feeling better?”

Jongin smiles, one of the more genuine ones he’s had these days. “Thank you for the hug, it felt warm.” When he looks up at Chanyeol, he notices how _scared_ the man looks, his lips contorted in a way that seems to be holding back secrets. Chanyeol falls back onto the patient bed across from Jongin, his typical jacket already strewn aside, leaving him in just a dress shirt. For some reason, Jongin strings the concept of white shirts and black slacks as a _Joonmyun_ thing, and sometimes a Minseok thing when he pulls Soojung away on dates. But Chanyeol fits them so well too.

“Are they all at dinner?” Jongin asks, gesturing towards the empty desks. Chanyeol shakes his head.

“Jongdae and Dr. Yubin are at dinner, Dr. Lim is handling a dancer who sprained her ankle. She’s down at the studio since they can’t really bring her down.” Chanyeol intertwines his two hands together, looking up at Jongin every so and then. “Why aren’t you eating with your friends?”

Jongin shrugs. “I didn’t want you to be upset with me. About the appointment.”

Chanyeol furrows his brows. “You didn’t have to skip your meal for that, it’s really contradicting for what you’re here for.”

Jongin laughs, pulling his legs up so they’re resting completely on the bed. He notices a stack of papers piled high on Chanyeol’s desk, egg-shelled-colored manila folders opened across the tiny space. “I ended up getting something to eat anyways,” he holds up the unwrapped sandwich in his hand. “Thank you, hyung.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“What will you eat?” Jongin asks carefully, frowning at the man. “Did I take your meal?”

Chanyeol smiles lopsidedly, reaching over to ruffle up Jongin’s hair. “Sweet kid. I already ate, but thank you for caring about me.” His wristwatch brushes Jongin’s forehead, nudging at his band-aid. “Eat up, then I’ll go all health-freak on you.” It pulls a giggle out of Jongin, and maybe that’s what Chanyeol was going for. In near silence, Jongin chews on mouthfuls of bread and meat, and perhaps it would be complete silence—had the twenty-nine-year old not been humming.

Jongin crumples up the paper wrappings, tossing it into the nearby wastebasket. “Are you going to make me go on a weight thing?” Jongin asks nervously, clearing his throat in the process. “I promise it’s not as bad as Dr. Yubin made it out to be. I swear.”

It’s not bad, really. A few summers ago, Jongin remembers being seventeen and watching Joonmyun lecture his heart out on three soloists, and he swears he saw veins throbbing against his forehead. “ _This is not your EDU in a fuckin’ hospital,”_ he had yelled back then, “ _We are performers, not imperfections.”_

It’s not bad at all.

Chanyeol opens his mouth to say something, but his lips form a thin line before he can manage anything out. “Come sit at my desk, I need to talk to you about something.” Jongin gulps, clutching his ballet flats tightly in his hands, shuffling his bare feet behind Chanyeol. He pulls out a chair for the boy, patting on the seat to let him know that it’s a seat for him. “Yes, you need to follow a few instructions for a weight plan. I promise it won’t be as bad as the other dancers made it out to be. But that’s not what you’re here for.” If Chanyeol’s voice went a little patchy, Jongin doesn’t point it out.

Chanyeol hands him over a sheet, laminated to ensure that it doesn’t get damaged. “Is this the w-weight plan?”

He shoots him an apologetic smile, hands reaching over for Jongin’s to give a supportive squeeze. “It is. Don’t worry, if you go through with this you’ll only be on it for five days tops. It’s just to get you back to your original, healthy weight.” Jongin forces himself to nod, the number of calories on the paper seeming too large for him. Too much.

“Is that all?” Jongin asks, even if he knows the answer.

Chanyeol clears his throat, pushing his hair back. Jongin can’t help but notice how large his hands are, as if he had been doing labor work in his younger years. “No,” he admits. “This wasn’t my intention, Jongin-ah. But since I was in charge of your weight plan, I had to go through your medical profile and I just,” he cuts off with a sharp breath. “It’s not my place, but _I’m worried about you._ ”

Something heavy sinks in Jongin’s gut.

Playing the fool, he forces himself to give a smile. “What’s there to be worried about, hyung?”

Chanyeol, seeming conflicted, pulls out one of the file folders on his desk. “Jongin, I’ll be talking off the record with you alright? Hyung to friend?” Jongin nods, even if it’s stiff. Chanyeol sighs, opening the file folder, looking overwhelmed. “You told me a little bit ago that you’re on beta-blockers, right? But they’re not the only medication you take?”

“Yes, that’s true…” Jongin trails off, unsure where Chanyeol is going with this.

Chanyeol looks down at the paper, a slight smile playing about his lips when he reaches the picture of Jongin. It’s an old photo, because he has never gotten the chance to update it. “You’re also on antidepressants, anticonvulsants, and,” he squints at the paper, unaware of how rapidly Jongin’s fingers are working to keep himself from scratching himself. “Calcium channel blockers. Do you take these daily?”

Jongin feels a surge of panic course its way through his body, settling for choking at his neck. “Why are you asking?” he asks anxiously.

Chanyeol clears his throat. “Have I ever mentioned where I used to work?”

“You said something about medicine, and a hospital.”

“Yeah, something of the like.” Chanyeol points at the list of medicine on Jongin’s paper, and he wishes that they’ll go away. “I know this stress isn’t good for you. Especially with all of this. You don’t look healthy nowadays, and if this is about your role then I’m going to—”

“It’s stressful, and it’s hard,” Jongin admits. “But I _love it,_ hyung. Even if it makes me scared and anxious, I love to dance the most.” Chanyeol nods, and Jongin knows. He knows it when Sehun bites his lips when Jongin has a drink in his hand. He’s so accustomed to the way Minseok grimaces when Jongin dabs at fresh cuts. And to be quite frank, he really hates it. “What are you really trying to say?” he asks, trying to maintain eye contact with Chanyeol. But it’s hard, because his eyes are always so wide; he can’t ever tell if it’s out of bewilderment or if he’s just a puppy.

Chanyeol looks down at his hands, not the files, just his hands. “We’re speaking off record, right?” he asks, sounding unsure of himself. “Is this…off record enough for you?”

 _No,_ Jongin wants to say, because the way Chanyeol looks so professional in a large desk stacked high with secrets—in stark contrast with a sweaty boy who is shaking violently, it isn’t off the record enough. “I feel intimidated,” he admits slowly. Chanyeol seems to catch his drift, because he pushes himself off his desk chair, and pulls out another chair directly in front of Jongin.

Jongin’s first initial reaction is to recoil into his seat, but he stops immediately at the hurt expression on Chanyeol’s face. “If I wore less professional clothes…” Chanyeol tugs at his dress shirt. “Would I intimate you less, Jonginnie?”

Somehow, ‘ _Jonginnie’_ unravels every tension in his muscles.

“You know, huh?” Jongin whispers, staring down at Chanyeol’s Adam’s Apple. It looks so nice, a small part of him wants to lower down and kiss it gently, the way Luhan does when he’s too drunk to speak. “Off the records, you know.”

“I might.” Chanyeol leans over and pulls his hand into his again, nearly eating it up with his large ones. “I’m speaking as a friend.”

“You went through my medical information, hyung.”

Chanyeol flinches. “It wasn’t my intention.” He looks so honest that Jongin can’t deny him of anything. “I just was worried about the weight plan you had to go on and I didn’t mean to see your information. Jongin-ah, I promise.”

“I’m not weird,” Jongin says quickly. “I’m normal, hyung. I’m not crazy!”

“Jongin, Jongin!” Chanyeol jerks out of his chair, holding both of his arms. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay! No one thinks you’re crazy. I would never think you are anything less than brilliant and sweet. Not crazy, you’re not crazy at all.” Jongin’s own conscience refuses to accept that he’s crying, burying his face into his own sweater and sobbing as Chanyeol soothes him.

“H-how would you know?” If Chanyeol cares about his dress shirt, it sure doesn’t seem like it when he presses Jongin close to him, tears, snot and all.

“Because I know a thing or two about crazy,” he replies back, and Jongin feels so _safe_ in his arms. “And you certainly aren’t.”

 

♕♕♕

Dinner time is officially over in forty minutes. Jongin’s cheeks are red from rubbing at them, and so are his eyes. He tries to protest whenever Chanyeol gets up to throw the balled up tissues around him. Even if he himself has stopped crying, he just wants to curl up on the bed and sleep his thoughts away.

 _Crazy,_ what a funny word. Living with a man whom everyone claims is crazy, he knows a few things about the word. Especially in the locker room, when everyone forgets he’s in the showers, muttering how that ‘ _poor kiddo that keeps hallucinating. Must be Lu and the drugs.'_ Jongin grips on the collar of his shirt tightly, remembering all the name callings that etched itself into tender skin that was only a few years old. _Alice, Alice, you lil’ Alice,_ he’d know.

Chanyeol hasn’t said much after Jongin had recovered from his crying episode. “Do you want to stay here for awhile?” he asks quietly after a good ten minutes has passed. Jongin just shakes his head, curling in deeper on the bed. “I can call you in from your studio. They’d understand.”

“They’d laugh at me,” Jongin croaks. “I’m fine, hyung.”

Chanyeol’s heart drops at that. “They won’t laugh at you.” He walks a few steps closer, arm outstretched to pull the blanket up further on the boy. Jongin wonders how things got like this, from promising a man’s sister that he’ll befriend the lonely Doctor; to crying in his work place with his hands comforting goosebumps on his arms.

“It’s not a big deal,” Jongin sighs, standing up. He has a good fifteen minutes to head back to the studio before Sojin becomes suspicious. “It’s easy to pass it off as a migraine. It _is_ a migraine problem.” Chanyeol sits back down, and for once, he’s looking up at Jongin, big eyes with rather prominent circles under them. “Are we still off the records, hyung?”

“Yeah, we are.”

“Then will you forget about it then?”

“…That’s not how it works.”

Jongin picks at his skin. “Can you make it work like that?” he asks, and he’d be a fucking liar to say he isn’t scared. “Could you, Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol’s face lights up in the dim mood. “You’re saying my name,” he says incredulously. “It sounds…nice.”

“It’s informal,” Jongin corrects him, smiling. _Sorry._ It’s better to take the heat off him, even if it makes him feel guilty. “You’re nine years older than me.”

Chanyeol grimaces. “I’d rather not be reminded.” Ten minutes, he has ten minutes until he has to go back to practice. “I’m not sure what I prefer, hyung or Chanyeol.”

Jongin turning flustered, shakes his head. “I don’t know why I said your name, it was disrespectful, right?”

Chanyeol shows off a slow grin, and Jongin thinks smiles suit his face the best. “Hyung makes me feel a little old,” he admits. “It’s kind of a wake-up call to me. Twenty nine, thirty this year. But I still don’t have much going for my life. Chanyeol on the other hand makes it casual, I like casual.”

_I know._

“You have a lot of things going for you,” Jongin argues. “You still talk to your sister, and I hope you like your workplace. You also seem young.”

“In comparison to you, I seem to be nearing the ends of my entertainment factor.” It’s a joke, but somehow it sounds sad. Chanyeol grabs his duffel, and helps him pack up his things, the weight plan, two bottles of water, and an energy bar that Jongin doesn’t know where he got. “If you want, you can just call me Chanyeol in private. My sister calls me Dumbo, even if she has big ears too, and I’d prefer you _not_ to call me that.”

Jongin giggles.

“Thank you, Chanyeol.”

“Good job on wiggling out of the spotlight by the way,” Chanyeol ruffles up his hair for the third time. “Maybe on a better day, you can open up to me? Even if I’m almost a stranger. I…care. I haven’t had a lot of people to care for.”

“Not even noona?” Jongin asks, slipping on his duffel bag. Chanyeol’s hands skate across his skin when he does, and it’s an accident. Maybe.

Chanyeol looks down at his feet. “I think she has learned to care for herself. She doesn’t even need my feelings anymore.”

“You’re not a stranger.”

“It’s best for you to head back,” Chanyeol says. “Don’t overwork yourself, Jongin. Health is first. Your body before your ballet.”

Jongin’s hand rests on the door handle, turning back to look at Chanyeol. He wonders how cramped he must feel in the physio. It is by no means a place too small, it’s rather large actually. Somehow, the theatre got a hold of a fair share of rich men and sponsors. But it seems redundant, the way he has to handle petulant brats dubbed dancers and their problems. Problems like Jongin.

“Everything is off the record,” Jongin says, disappearing behind the door. Something in him has him faltering in the doorway, and in the corner of his eye, he can see Chanyeol rolling up the sleeves on his too-fancy shirt. “Is it always like that with you, Chanyeol?” Jongin _likes_ saying his name. The way it’s soft in the first syllable, but a good tongue flick to the roof of his mouth for the second. It fits his face, and especially the way he talks. Soft, but brass.

“It seems to be that way.”

 

♕♕♕

Jongin passes Luhan in the hallway. The latter is the first to slow down, his eyes half-lidded, adding to his allure. Jongin pauses in his steps as well, watching as the older man approaches him. It’s obvious he’s coming out from somewhere, looking not so sweaty with a new shirt hanging off his shoulders. The cut on his lip has healed, even if it might leave a scar.

“Heard you got in trouble with those white-coats,” he muses, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It’s still cold, and Jongin only partially blames the heating system. “What’s the issue here? Who was bothering my little sweetheart?” When he coos, he leans forward, and Jongin catches a whiff of smoke from his lips.

“I wasn’t in trouble, not really.” Jongin looks down at his hyung, finding relief in him. Luhan frees up a hand and pulls on Jongin’s, dry hands slipping into his. He sees a carton of Lucky Strikes hanging from his bag, only three sticks left in it. There’s something evident in his eyes, and up close Jongin can see that it’s tiredness, spite, and lust. The last picks on him the most.

Luhan curls up close to him, like a cat, a purr ripping out from between chapped lips. “I’ve _missed_ you all day,” he murmurs, and Jongin stiffens. Luhan notices, but makes no move to pull back at all. “What’s wrong, baby face?” It’s ironic, they both know. Jongin smiles slightly, fighting the exhaustion that threatens to make his knees go weak.

“I’m just sleepy, Lu.” Jongin makes a gesture to his chest for effects. “It’s been a long day. I wish you could be here with me, even if we’re in different scenes. I wish you and Sehun were here.”

Luhan tilts his head. “But I am here, always.” He jabs a finger at Jongin’s arm, short nails digging into his flesh. “We’ve been together for so _many years,_ it’s almost like we’re high school sweethearts.” He giggles, and Luhan looks significantly younger when he laughs like that. A bit freaky, too. “We practically are. Does loving you when you were a 3rd year count as high school lovers?”

That strikes a chord in Jongin.

His face pales, a shiver coursing over his skin. “Please don’t bring that up,” he says faintly, eyes darting back and forth to see if anyone’s around, if anyone hears anything.

“Why not?”

Jongin clears his throat. “They’ll say things about you.”

Luhan looks delightful, his cheeks balling up when his smile broadens. He’s off again, but when isn’t he? “And what about you, Jongin-ah? Aren’t you worried they’ll say _things_ about you? How you let an adult fuck you as a minor? Oh! That just gets my lil’ nerves running!”

_Hyung, why are you like this?_

“You’re high right now,” Jongin mutters. His pulse quickens and he hastily pushes Luhan off him, careful not to have the elder stumble too much. _Please stop, please, please, please._ “You’re too high to be saying anything in your head out loud, hyung, please go somewhere to get off it.”

“Help me get off it.” Luhan jumps up and down on the balls of his feet. “I’m so _bored_ in rehearsal, Yixing won’t look at me. I _want_ to be looked at.” Luhan steps back though, arms up in defense. “Alright, you do what you want. But I’m home tonight.”

Jongin stares at him for awhile. Luhan looks so beautiful like this, Jongin thinks, the way his face is so bright and his voice is chirping off near-perfect Korean. If it weren’t for the red tint to his eyes, and how smokey each word that spills out of his lips are, it might be okay. Might be.

“Please don’t get in trouble,” he whispers, wrapping a hand around his wrist. Luhan struggles under his grasp, but gives up a minute in. “Go to the bathroom hyung, and wash up. Clear yourself up.”

“That’s not how it works.” Luhan whines, his voice scattered across the air. “Do you want me to show you how it works?”

“It’s alright,” he replies nervously, head spinning, begging to some God out there that no one sees the theatre’s best male soloist on a sweet high. It’s not like they don’t know, really. It’s just that it’s better to lie than admit it to headlines. Jongin, realizing that Sojin will probably lecture him about time, quickens his pace towards the locker rooms. Praying on dumb luck that no one is there, he pulls Luhan into the room.

“It’s not the same as being drunk,” Luhan jerks out of his grasp, and Jongin lets him. “I’m older, I’m fucking older than you, baby. I’m just happy right now, I’m high and happy.” He stumbles into the safety of the wooden bench, cluttered by bags and ballet flats no one cares about. He leans back on the walls, the lights so dim that Jongin can barely make out the scars on his neck.

Jongin bends down, so that his knees are pressed against the floor. “Hyung, I love you,” he reminds him gently, looking up at the man whom he had admired for years and years; whose photos had found a place in Jongin’s scrapbook of heroes and lovers. “Please don’t get yourself in trouble. What if Sehun finds out?”

“He already knows,” Luhan snaps, though there’s not much bite to it. “He just doesn’t care.”

“That’s not true.”

Luhan wastes no time to fall against the bench, using it as a makeshift resting place. “You know, if that bitchy angel asks, I’m sleeping. Sleeping my high away.” He shifts in his position, turning his face away from Jongin.

A little voice in the back of his head urges him to leave the locker room and go to practice. Instead, he slumps down, his chest pooling with heat. He watches Luhan stir in his rest, his shoulders pushing up and down against his ears and right back down. _Hyung._ Jongin scoots closer and closer to the man, hand outreached to tug on Luhan’s fingers.

He turns his head around, eyes barely open. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” and it’s true.

 

♕♕♕

Joonmyun doesn’t do texting.

No, really, he’s all for emails and hell, maybe letters if anyone lets him. Jongin sits up groggily in bed, too early for the sun to kiss him good morning, and too late for him to say that it’s night. Luhan is passed out downstairs, his bedsheets crippled and pillows strewn across the mattress. He takes interest in the torn magazines on the bed, with a cut up piece of a cigarette when Luhan felt like decorating last night.

His laptop screen is much too bright for the darker hours, the small lamp on the side of his not helping. _I want you to come see me. In my office in the afternoon._ It’s blunt and it’s direct, and Jongin pushes the laptop out of sight with a squirm. It’s his off-day, one of his most boring days and just as relaxing.

Jongin curls up against the pillow, wanting to sleep in, even if his body protests. Snuggling his face into the crook of his teddy bear, he sighs, chest feeling light. The knots in his back haven’t been kind, thanks to the entire week of Sojin bustling him to keep his feet right on the ground. Sehun snores up on the bunk, and Jongin can’t help but smile.

The heater in the corner isn’t working again, a layer of wool and cotton piled high on his shoulders to keep the cold away. _If you get sick, I won’t talk to you,_ Minseok had said a few days ago, when he had caught Jongin sneezing over and over into his elbow.

“Hey, Sehun?” Jongin whispers, eyes drawn up to the top bunk. No answer. “You’re asleep, huh?”

Snore.

“That’s okay.” Jongin turns around, shutting his eyes tightly. “It’s so early. I don’t know what to do today.”

He hears Sehun groaning into his pillow; maybe he’s dreaming.

“You’ll go off with your friends again. Friends I don’t know.” Jongin tugs on his teddy’s ear, and it threatens to tear at the seams. “Will you take a shot or two with them? Or go kiss girls with them?” Each word gets softer, and he prays that Sehun is truly asleep. “I’ll be home alone.” Jongin turns again, so that he’s on his back. A few cutouts and signatures from ballet dancers he had gotten a visit out of lies taped to the ceiling of his bunk. There’s a scribble in permanent marker from Sehun, that says ‘ _brothers’._ Luhan’s says ‘矿’.

Jongin traces his hand over the four-year-old writing, letting his arm fall back on his forehead when he sighs. He tells himself that Sehun replies in between the snores and blanket rustling. He tells himself that Sehun is reassuring him, that he won’t leave him alone again for today, and that he won’t go off with the people who taunt Jongin in the locker room. He tells himself that Sehun is asleep though, and that such replies also don’t exist when his eyes are opened.

Pulling himself downstairs takes a lot of effort, with his blanket trailing down the stairs behind him. The ceiling fan is on, even if the house is way too goddamn cold. Luhan, with his back curved towards the table, and shoulders with no posture. “Lulu,” Jongin yawns his name, waking the other from the table. He has a fistful of tissues, some almost as splotchy and red as his nose. “Are you having a nosebleed? Do you need more tissues? Oh no, are we out of tissues?”

“I’m fine,” Luhan grunts, squeezing his nose with the crumple of tissues. “Just a nosebleed. Had too much fun yesterday.” Jongin sits down, letting the blanket fall to the floor.

“There’s blood on your hands,” Jongin points out, eyes looking down at the dried up red between his fingers.

Luhan sighs into the wad. “When isn’t there?” he replies dryly, letting his hand fall back.

“Hyung, you’ll taste blood if you do that—”

Luhan dismisses him with a toss of a dirtied tissue. “What if I _like_ it, huh?”

To that, Jongin says nothing.

A few minutes pass, with Luhan’s head lulling back and forth on the edge of the chair, skin all red from the harsh rubbing. The older man says nothing when Jongin wipes down his hands of the blood, the damp cloth soaking up all of the evidence of ‘ _too much fun’._ “Have you seen my phone?” Jongin asks, hoping to spark up conversation. “I had to use the laptop for emails, and it’s really slow.”

“I have it,” Luhan replies bluntly.

 _I know._ “Why?”

Luhan shrugs, pushing all of the bloody napkins into the wastebasket that’s already full. Jongin leans back, giving him space because he doesn’t like the smell of blood. “I’m your guardian. You’re… _mine._ Don’t you think?”

“Am I supposed to think, hyung?”

Luhan grins, and it’s unsettling. “What do you have to do with this Chanyeol? You’ve barely known him and yet here you are, exchanging, what, zodiacs? You’re a real fucking kid.” Jongin flinches, and Luhan’s smile turns too wide for his face. “Isn’t he using you, Jongin? Don’t you think it’s strange?”

Jongin tries his best not to bite his tongue. “You barely knew me back then when you signed the guardian papers,” he points out, keeping his words soft as they can be, so that they cannot yield weapons. “Chanyeol isn’t using me. He’s…kind.” Jongin keeps his gaze firm, but he’s not looking at Luhan.

“There’s a lot of shit I’ve heard about him,” Luhan says in a sing-song voice. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, baby.”

“Chanyeol is just my friend.” He wonders if Luhan can hear the iron in his tone.

Luhan picks at the remains of grit and blood under his nails. “I know Sehun knows these…rumors, too. Why don’t you ask the lil’ prince? Since you don’t trust me?” His words drip with sarcasm, and something else. Jongin pushes himself back further into the dining chair, but there’s not much room for him. The lack of sleep is portrayed in Luhan’s face, but his eyes are so lit up that Jongin wants to shy away. And he does.

“Please don’t scare away my friends again,” Jongin chokes a little bit on his words. Just a bit. “Especially this one. He’s good to me.”

“ _Too_ good.”

_Why are you like this, Lu?_

Jongin stands up abruptly, a pleased look graces Luhan’s face. “I’m going to go shower,” he mumbles, grabbing his blanket off the ground and it sits in a death grip. “Have a good morning, hyung.”

Luhan rolls his neck. “Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?” he pouts, pointing to his lip. The swelling has gone down, and his white teeth make up for it. “Lulu misses his Jongin’s morning kisses. It makes all his sores go away. Almost.”

Jongin shivers, and he makes sure Luhan sees.

“Okay.”

Familiar, but also foreign. Sort of metallic. Jongin’s presses his lips to Luhan’s for a chaste kiss, but the latter tugs on his pajama shirt, teeth grazing his tongue. _Hyung, wait—_

He lets go.

“Have fun showering, sweet thing.” Luhan tosses Jongin’s phone onto the table. “And text back to that friend of yours.”


	10. In Front of God

Jongin counts the number of slips that happen in the shower. Just two.

He bites down on his hand with his eyes shut, shampoo stinging them. “Sehun!” he cries out, voice muffled. “I’m hearing…I’m hearing…” the bathroom door doesn’t open like he expects it to. Jongin watches movies, where a girl cries out for her boyfriend, who bursts through the door with arms wide. Except his friend doesn’t open the shaky door.

He wonders how good are Sehun’s dreams for him not to wake up.

Pulling his hand out of the shower, he grabs his phone despite his wet fingers. “Chanyeol, Chanyeol, Chanyeol,” he murmurs over and over, getting more frantic. “Please.” The phone nearly slips out of his grasp, and it takes a lot of fumbling fingers for him to grip onto it before it cracks.

In truth, there’s not a lot of people for him to dial. A scatter of a few numbers lay here and there, enough to make a round of calls but not enough for a second. The phone rings once, twice, and three times. Shutting his eyes, he switches off the water with a fumbling hand, biting down on a whimper when his wrist scraps the faucet. Jongin holds his breath when Chanyeol picks up.

“Jongin?”

“Hi,” he says breathlessly, letting his head tip back onto the wet and dirty tiles. His knees are up to his chest, because his private parts make him a little red in the face. The curtain shields the bathroom lights from him, and it’s all dim in the bathtub. “Chanyeol-ah, or hyung, Chanyeol-hyung.”

He hears the man chuckle, and a clink of a spoon. “Chanyeol is fine.” There’s something about the chocolate-feel to his voice that makes all the knots in Jongin’s chest go away. “Good morning, I’ll send your little zodiacs in a second. Hopefully you still read those? Or am I just spamming you?”

Jongin grips a fistful of wet hair. The pounding in his head has ceased to a dull thump, but the bathroom is much too quiet for him to be at ease. “I like those zodiacs, they make me happy.” He tells himself that Chanyeol is smiling through the phone, with the way his upper lip curls in to show off white teeth. “Is this too early for you?”

“No,” Chanyeol replies, clearing his throat. “I wake up the earliest in the house. My sister is still asleep. I’m actually going to open up the clinic in a good half hour, would you like to…?”

Jongin breathes out a sigh of relief. Gratitude, even. “Can I really stay with you? I have nothing to do.”

“I always love your company.”

Jongin glances down at his naked body. Water droplets tattoo every corner of his skin, dilating the scars on his knee caps to a more sickly red. When he reaches up to touch his hair again, he realizes it’s still soapy. “Okay,” he says, trying to keep the warmth in his voice even if his body lacks some. “I’ll see you soon, hyung—I mean, Chanyeol?”

“I’d love that, but,” he hesitates, and his breathing is so still against the phone. “Why did you call me? It’s not that I mind, I’m just wondering, are you alright?”

Jongin tugs on his own ear, hoping the numb feeling will bring him away from the thought. “I’m okay,” he lies through his teeth, and his lips. “Everyone is still asleep in my house, or busy. I felt a little lonely, sorry.”

“No apologies, remember?”

This time, he _knows_ that Chanyeol’s grinning from ear to ear through the phone. Hanging up, he frowns at how wet the phone is from all the water. Crawling out of the bathroom is a feat on its own; especially with Jongin’s ears still ringing. His thigh slaps against the edge of the tub, and he winces. When he stands up, Jongin blinks through watery eyes at the cabinet with Luhan’s name on it. A strip of scotch tape across the mirror, LU HAN in English across the tape.

His fingers itch to yank at the cabinet and see the secrets. Jongin wonders if any of the secrets in there are of him. Instead, he shuffles with wet feet outside of the bathroom, hair still soapy but he doesn’t mind so much. He’s not surprised to see Sehun still slump into a lump across his bed, blankets hanging off the bunk as a sign of too much movement.

 _It’s not Sehun’s fault,_ he tells himself, and keeps his voice in silence as he changes.

Jeans that are now too lose are tightened with a belt, and he hurries downstairs in mismatched socks. Luhan doesn’t even bat an eye at him, still arched towards the dining table with an almost-emptied lighter an arm length away from his reach. “Lu,” he starts off softly. Luhan keeps his eyes on the lighter, but his ears perks up. “I’m going out. I hope you have fun today. And remember to…remember to eat.” Jongin pulls back, even if Luhan doesn’t swing anything.

“Oh, I’ll eat.”

Liar.

The elder doesn’t say anything about his dripping hair, keeping his eyes leveled on the purple lighter. And Jongin lets him, slipping out of the door without much struggle. His muscles are still in pain from the rehearsals, and Jongin has to blink a few times to ease the sleep out of his eyes. The road down to the cafes and buildings is now warmer, with the winter and snow fading into grass and skies that promises somewhat of a blue.

Jongin grins into the air, letting the breeze rush through his soaked hair as he hurries down the hilly road, going left twice to get to the clinic. As always.

A few students sitting outside of the convenience store shoots a couple of glances towards Jongin, who weaves between them to avoid the cyclers rushing through the streets.

“Hyung!” Jongin shouts against the wind, face widening when he sees the tall man turn around. Chanyeol is standing outside of the clinic with two rolls of newspapers under one arm, and a set of keys looped onto his fingers. Chanyeol squints, but his face relaxes when Jongin nears him, sleeves flopping in over-sized shirts and jeans that threaten to give a peek of a hip bone.

“Did you run here—oh my God, your hair is,” Chanyeol reaches over and touches his wet hair, and Jongin chuckles nervously. “Wet, you’re going to catch a cold!” he raises his voice but he’s not chastising him. Chanyeol fumbles with the keys and quickly opens the door to the clinic, ushering Jongin in with murmurs.

“Good morning!” Jongin chirps, helping him by flipping on the light switches. “It’s so nice outside.”

Chanyeol gives him a look. “It’s still chilly. Jongin, what were you thinking? You can’t _afford_ to get sick during your practice period.” Chanyeol sets down his jacket and papers, and rolls up his sleeves. He smiles, and it looks rather dorky. “You still have shampoo in your hair, Jongin.”

“I’m not good with showering myself,” Jongin mumbles, feeling his face flush. “Sehun always tells me that.” He makes a noise when Chanyeol presses both of his hands into his hair, hearing the twenty-nine-year-old laugh.

“It’s so soapy. That’s not good for your hair. It’ll feel really sticky afterward.” Chanyeol lets go of his head and wipes his hands on the back of his jeans. Without much warning, he fits his hand into Jongin’s, pulling him into the back of the clinic. “I’ll give you a treatment of rinsing that out for you, okay?”

“Sorry for the trouble, Chanyeol,” Jongin says, forgetting about the rules of apologies. “I just really wanted to get here and didn’t want to waste time. And I don’t like getting soap in my eye. It stings.” He shuts his eyes and shakes his head, and Chanyeol’s laughter is louder and more open.

“If you let me rinse that out, I promise I won’t get soap in your eyes.” Chanyeol opens the newly painted door to the bathroom, where he sits Jongin close to the sink. “What am I going to do with you, Jonginnie?” he asks playfully, his eyes bright.

Jongin grins.

Chanyeol has him sit down on a pull-out chair, rolling up his sleeves and pushing his hair back. He looks a lot more free, Jongin thinks, without a sweater vest constricting his too broad shoulders and a button down with no wrinkles. His jeans are faded, with the pockets too loose for style. Jongin swings his feet, keeping his eyes on Chanyeol until the latter looks away. “It feels like a Saturday morning,” Jongin speaks up, watching Chanyeol turn on the faucet. “Back when I was in high school.”

“How long has it been since high school for you?” Chanyeol asks, wrapping a towel around his neck.

“Two years.”

Chanyeol chuckles, and Jongin wonders if it’s just him that finds it strained. “Why are you always reminding me that I’m old?” he settles Jongin’s head over the sink, so that his neck barely kisses the blunt edge of the table. “It’s been ten or eleven years for me.” His hands are firm in his hair, and Jongin shuts his eyes to avoid the water.

“I forget you’re older,” says Jongin, voice muffled. “You talk to me so well.”

“I'm used to children,” Chanyeol says automatically, and quickly asserts himself even if Jongin doesn’t say anything. “Not that you’re a child, Jongin.”

Jongin shrugs. “I get it.”

Chanyeol’s hand motions slow down, and it feels like a massage, with his fingers running through his hair. “No, no. It’s just…you’re so _free,_ Jongin-ah. You’re too kind and smile too much, it makes me feel a lot safer. Like around children.”

Jongin reaches up with a free hand to tug on Chanyeol’s sleeve, careful not to get water on it. “Do I make you feel safe? Really?”

For a while, Chanyeol doesn’t reply, concentrated on rinsing out the boy’s hair full of soap. Jongin accepts the silence, his hand still on his sleeve because the man hasn’t pulled away. “I don’t feel like I have to pretend,” he says after turning off the faucet. It catches Jongin by surprise, his voice throaty and soothing. “You don’t make me feel uncomfortable.”

“Thank you,” Jongin beams. He sits up, squealing when Chanyeol rips the towel away from his shoulders and buries his head into the fluff. “Chanyeol!”

He hears the man’s laughter, vibrant as his veiny hands brush past his red ears. “Jongin, stay still,” he instructs through a light voice. “You’re getting water all over yourself.” And he listens, keeping his shoulders rigid as Chanyeol ruffs up his hair. “I never thought I’d have to wash up a dancer in this new career.”

Jongin follows him out the bathroom, water droplets staining his collar. “You’re not. You’re washing up a friend’s hair in this new life.”

_This new life._

The clinic is empty, with flower pots in the window and pamphlets in order of size. Chanyeol stuffs his hand in his pocket, spinning around on the ball of his feet so that he faces Jongin. “Sorry the clinic is boring,” he says sheepishly, adjusting his glasses. “Yoora is sick today—yes the head of the clinic is out with a hangover because she drank too much—so it’s just,” he makes a grand gesture, “me today.”

“I have nothing to do on my off days,” Jongin admits. “Joonmyun-ssi wants me at his place later in the afternoon. But I hope you don’t mind me here.” He curls up on one of the seats, careful not to get his wet hair close to the leather. Chanyeol flips through the papers behind the desk, face broken with a smile.

“What about your friends?”

Jongin shrugs, rubbing at his eyes. It’s still much too early. “They’re Sehun’s friends,” he says through a yawn. “I just tag along.”

It hurts a lot less to say it when he’s not alone.

“What about you?” Jongin asks, sitting up straight. When he looks up, he sees Chanyeol looking right at him, before turning his head away, his big ears turning pink. “What about your friends?”

Chanyeol flips through the mass of papers, presumably Yoora’s papers since all the words are dotted with the flick of a swirl on the ends. He has seen the sticky notes written by Chanyeol, awkwardly scrawny like he’s rushing. Jongin heaves himself off the couch, and rests his chin on the counter in front of Chanyeol, his shoulders slumped.

“I have my sister,” he starts, keeping his face clean and unreadable. “I hope I have you.”

“What about Jongdae-ssi? And…that Byun Baekhyun?”

Chanyeol chuckles. “You have a good memory. Jongdae is just my senior at work. I think he feels sorry for me. Baekhyun is too busy waiting for his oil paintings to dry, I don’t think I’m first on his list when he’s an artist.” He smiles, but it looks so practiced that Jongin can’t make himself believe it.

“You’re so nice though,” Jongin protests. “I bet you can go to Hongdae and meet girls easily. I can’t do that. Luhan says I’ll never be able to do that.”

Chanyeol looks taken aback. “Why would he say that?”

Jongin shrugs. His hair is still wet, a few clumped strands hanging over his face. _A child can never be loved. I’ll only love you._ “I’m not good with people.” He hears the papers slam down, jolting him out of his daze. It’s like this, always in a daze. Jongin stares wide-eyed at Chanyeol, whose face remains soft but his hands shake otherwise. Veins more prominent, and his knuckles a lot more whiter than the space on the papers. “Chanyeol?”

“Don’t say things like that,” he says, his voice thick. “Don’t put yourself down like that. If Luhan told you that you weren’t good with people…it’s wrong. You’re in a good pace, Jongin.” Chanyeol has this sort of _click_ to his voice; the kind that makes you want to keep it locked away forever in your back pockets. “I’m sure you can go meet girls in Hongdae, because you’re not what Luhan thinks you are.”

Jongin feels his chest constrict, and he’s not sure why. “That’s okay. I don’t want to meet girls in Hongdae anyways.” He pulls his fingers back, just to hear the pop and the crack. “Everyone in Hongdae reminds me of alcohol.” He shivers, and clutches his wrist close to his chest. “But they’re pretty, I’m sure they like tall people like you.”

Chanyeol laughs uneasily. “Thanks, Jongin.”

Jongin squishes his own cheeks, the way that makes Sehun laugh when he’s sad. “I like tall people. I’m happy you’re taller than me.” Chanyeol blinks, bottom lip twisted under his teeth. Chanyeol clears his throat, and sits himself down on the chair behind the desk, pulling out a small and very _pink_ chair.

“Do you want to sit behind here? It’s Yoora’s chair, so I hope you don’t mind.” Jongin nods excitedly, hurrying over and folds himself up on the seat. He bumps elbows with Chanyeol, but the latter doesn’t mind. “You seem so cheerful today.”

Jongin pouts. “Minseok tells me that if I’m happy, other people will be happy.” He pokes Chanyeol’s arm, which is notably firm. “You seem sad today, hyung.”

“I’m not sad.”

“That’s okay.”

Chanyeol continues to scrawl some fancy and too complicated words on paper, and Jongin spins around on the chair waiting for his hair to dry. An old woman hobbles into the clinic, back supported by what is probably her son. Chanyeol stands up and bows, and Jongin’s eyes widen like an owl, unsure what to do.

“Just sit there,” he tells him, giving him a gentle pat on the head. “I’ll be back, okay?” Jongin nods, as Chanyeol goes about with the old woman with a bright smile and pen ready in hand.

Chanyeol gives him a side glance that says, _wait for me,_ before escorting the woman into the check-up room. Jongin sticks out his tongue at nothing in particularly, finding the silence unbearable with the son tapping away on his phone in the waiting room. His feet press up against the desk, arching the whole bottom as if he is in a studio; lights shining too bright and mirrors reminding him if he gets a step wrong.

_I’m the King of the Wilis._

Oh, he remembers.

Pulling out his phone, he reads the email over and over until the words go blurry and the phone blacks out. 

♕♕♕

“You’ve been staring at the clock for too long,” Chanyeol notes grimly. “Are you tired of me already?” he asks jokingly, but he appears too alarmed to be really playful.

“I can’t get tired of you,” Jongin replies, nudging him. “No, I’m just nervous. I have to see Joonmyun.”

“Why nervous?”

His hair is dry now and soft, the time stating that it’s late morning. A few clients came and left, most with a big smile or quivering lips, their mothers telling them that the flu shot was for their own good. Jongin notices how Chanyeol smiles so fondly at the children, as if they’re his own. A scatter of fruits on a plate sits in front of Jongin, courtesy of Chanyeol. “Joonmyun controls a lot of aspects in my life,” Jongin says, but there’s no bite to his voice. “Whether we move up a rank, the roles we get, the dance shoes made for us. Like a God.”

“That’s a bit extreme,” says Chanyeol, rather surprised. “The last part, I mean.”

Jongin shrugs. “I guess a father then.” He spins around, brightening up. “Are fathers fun, Chanyeol? Was yours?”

Chanyeol clears his throat, his face too pale for comfort. “He had a lot to do with my life.” Chanyeol grabs a fistful of his hair, letting the dark gray tone contrast against calloused hands. “He shaped it up to his own perspectives.”

There’s something sad in his voice, but Jongin doesn’t want to mention it.

“Do you want me to drive you?” Chanyeol asks, trying to switch moods. “Joonmyun lives in a busy area, I don’t want…” he trails off, cheeks blushing too pink for a man his age. “You to get lost.”

Jongin blames the messy feeling in his stomach as hunger pains. “That would be nice,” he says, eyes searching the older man’s face for any doubt. There isn’t. “You’re so kind, hyung.”

_Hyung._

Chanyeol sighs of relief. “Yoora will be in the clinic by then. I’m sure her hangover is getting better.”

Jongin nods, and rolls his chair closer to Chanyeol. He wonders if this is a thing of theirs—elbows bumping too close to one another, breathing so loudly that they can hear the sound of life in each other’s breaths. He hopes it’s their thing, and only theirs.

His eyes trail over the desk, tailored to Yoora herself with the heart shaped sticky notes and photographs. One catches his attention, of Yoora and Chanyeol. She looks younger, her hair isn’t as short as it is now, but in long waves that stop at her waist, a few strands tucked behind big ears that mark the Park siblings. Chanyeol is standing behind her, in a white coat with his hair black and gelled back. His face is wide with a split smile, his arms awkwardly placed around Yoora’s shoulder as she holds her certificate proudly.

“When was this taken?” Jongin asks, face in awe.

“Oh, that was a while ago. When I was still in medical school. Yoora had just graduated. I looked different, huh? Kind of scrawny.” Chanyeol taps on the photograph, pointing at himself.

“I think you looked handsome,” Jongin says without realizing. He’s not sure why his insides are on fire. He tells Yixing, Luhan, Sehun, Minseok, and everyone that they look beautiful, handsome, heavenly. Sometimes, they reward him with a thank you. Often times, some of them reward him with a too-hard kiss. “You’re still just as.”

Chanyeol looks away. “You’re too care-free with your compliments.”

“How old were you in this photo?”

“I think I was twenty-four or twenty-five.”

Jongin flinches, laughing nervously. “I was fifteen or sixteen then.” He had known Yoora back then, too. But he had never seen Chanyeol in Yeonhui, or anywhere around Yoora when she came home and the neighborhood celebrated her medical license.

“Were you doing ballet back at that age, too?” Chanyeol asks, leaning down to rest his face on his chin. He looks shockingly younger, especially in toned-down jeans and a shirt that hints like a college student, his cheek squished against his palm.

“I was. I think it was the time when I moved into this neighborhood, too. Along with Sehun and Luhan who became our guardian.” Chanyeol perks up, obviously intrigued.

“Guardian?”

Jongin nods, taking humor in how wide Chanyeol’s eyes have gotten. “Sehun’s parents, well I don’t know. I just know that he had nowhere to go. My sisters were getting tired of me…so I guess when Luhan took interest in me, they jumped at the offer.” Jongin looks away, not really wanting pity. “Sehun and Luhan got along a lot better a few years back. I don’t know what happened between them since last year, but they’ve been hating each other since. Luhan wasn’t in a good spot either back then, but he took care of us in his own way.”

“You’re still living with him? Even if you’re adults now?”

“We’re family,” Jongin says, smiling. “Even if it’s not a good one.”

Chanyeol places his hand on top of Jongin, the heat shared between skin is nice, and Jongin wants to keep his hand there for ever. “I’m sorry your sisters left you like that. You’re a good boy, Jongin. Anyone would be happy to be with you. I don’t understand why they would do that to you.”

It’s odd, how upset Chanyeol is getting. Jongin is used to the sympathetic speeches, where they say that they’re there for him when they’re really not. Their faces were never really sad or anything, but Chanyeol—he looks so…

“Am I really a boy? Not a man?” Jongin wonders, and it’s an accident that it’s out loud. “Are boys like kids?”

Chanyeol looks thrown off. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says softly, eyes too kind to be of anything else. Jongin just shrugs, keeping his heart on the line. “Sorry if that was taken the wrong way, Jonginnie.”

“No sorrys,” Jongin says. “No apologies Chanyeol.”

“Right.”

 

♕♕♕

Yoora greets them at the chime of afternoon, her lower half of her face covered with a scarf. “Glad you were keeping Chanyeol company,” she says knowingly, pulling away her scarf. “Thanks for holding up the clinic for me, little brother.”

“I work here too,” Chanyeol says, standing up. He stuffs his hands in his pocket, face full of relief at the sight of his sister. “Are you feeling better?”

Yoora waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Too much tequila.” She wrinkles her face. “You should come drinking with me, Jongin! Chanyeol never does, maybe he’ll come if you do.” She winks, and Jongin chuckles awkwardly.

“I’m not good with drinks,” he says, and it sounds so scripted. _I’m supposed to be bad at drinks,_ he thinks, _like a child._ “They make my stomach feel funny. And my head.”

Chanyeol steps in. “Don’t be like that Yoora,” he says, frowning. “You shouldn’t encourage him to drink.” Chanyeol puts an arm on his shoulder, as if to give a reassuring pat. Except it doesn’t do the whole reassurance-thing. Instead, it sends a shiver down his spine, as if threatening to snap him. “I’m going to take Jongin somewhere, I’ll be back sometime later to help with the clinic.”

“Oh?” she muses, eyes twinkling too bright. “Where?”

“It’s ballet-related,” Jongin chirps, rolling up onto the flat of his front as if on instinct. It probably is. “Hyung is so kind to me.”

“And so he is.”

“Noona.”

Yoora puts her hands up in defense, a stack of papers in hand. “Not saying anything,” she says, but the wide smile gives it away. “Alright, I’ll call you if I need anything. And Chanyeol?”

Chanyeol is in the middle of grabbing his things, like car keys and his wallet that’s obviously made of expensive leather. “Yeah?” he asks cautiously.

“Have a little fun today.” Yoora glances over at Jongin, face relaxing. “You need some fun in your life. Especially now.”

Chanyeol murmurs something along the lines of ‘okay’ and ‘don’t worry’. Jongin fiddles with his sleeves absentmindedly, waiting for Chanyeol. Jongin doesn’t want to look up, not really. He loves Yoora, don’t get him wrong—but there’s something in her piercing eye contact that says she knows something, like more secrets or rumors.

And that scares him.

“Where’s your car?” Jongin asks, when they’re walking down the street. Yeonhui is a lot more busier, but it’ll be as crowded as Hongdae or Myeongdong. “How come you never take the car to work?”

Chanyeol shrugs. “Why take the car when I can ride the subway? Plus, it’s nice to see a familiar face.” He gives Jongin a sideway glance. “It’s parked out back, the blue car.”

“Blue is pretty.”

Nearing the car, Chanyeol twirls the car keys around on his finger, catching Jongin’s attention. Luhan often does that, with the portable beer opener that he carries close to his chest. He presses it twice, the car beeping to life. Taking Jongin by surprise, he opens the passenger door for him, like a gentleman. “After you?” he asks, face amused.

“Thank you,” Jongin says, trying to contain his laughter. The interior of his car is nice; an air freshener hanging off the side, with a stack of medical-related magazines and readings stacked up neatly in the back. He climbs in gingerly, afraid to mess anything up.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Chanyeol ushers for him to sit down, reaching over to grab the seatbelt. Jongin tries his best not to yelp when Chanyeol tries to pull the belt over his chest. “I’m clean, but I’m not a bordering clean-freak.”

“I’m just awkward.”

“I like that about you.”

Chanyeol is quick to climb into the driver’s seat. “I think I should remember where Joonmyun lives.” Jongin nods, leaving it all up to him. “I’ll try not to get us lost.”

“I don’t think you can. Seoul is big, but it’s not massive.” Jongin pulls the mirror down, poking at his hair. He hasn’t brushed it since Chanyeol washed the soap out of his hair. “Do you think my hair is okay? I don’t want…I don’t want Joonmyun-hyung to laugh at me.”

His grip on the wheel tightens when he backs out of the lot. “Joonmyun won’t laugh at you,” Chanyeol confirms, voice light. “You look good.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

The ride remains silent for the most part; say for the few times Chanyeol looks over to ask if he’s alright. “I’m okay, hyung.” Jongin flashes one of the practiced smiles he has under his sleeves. They work for the most part. “I’m just nervous. I don’t know what Joonmyun has to say.”

“Do you want me to go in with you?” Chanyeol suggests. “I’m not sure if my company will comfort you, though.”

“It will, it does.” Jongin tugs on his seatbelt. “But I don’t think that’s right. I think Joonmyun wants to talk to me alone. But if you can wait outside…I think I’ll feel a lot better.”

“I’ll do that.”

Jongin smiles at him, even if his eyes are too concentrated on the road to notice. He looks around at the car, noticing a picture taped up carefully to the dashboard. “What’s this?” he asks, pointing to the photo. Jongin waits until Chanyeol gives him permission to look closer at the photograph, then he picks it off the dashboard to inspect. It’s Chanyeol again, crouching down with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. A small body is sitting down next to him, his owl-like eyes softened by a toothy grin. Happiness—there’s happiness in the photograph.

“The place I worked at…” Chanyeol says, as if picking out his words carefully, “there were a lot of children. I worked with a lot of them. He was one of them.”

“What’s his name?” Jongin asks, in awe.

Chanyeol looks over at the photograph, like to remind himself. “Kyungsoo. His name was Kyungsoo.”

“You’re good with kids,” Jongin notes. The smile and the ease in the photographed Chanyeol seems to be of a too-distant memory from the man driving right now. _Is that why you’re so good to me?_ “You’d be a good father.”

Chanyeol coughs violently into his arm, and Jongin clutches on the side of the seat, afraid that it’ll swerve. “Jongin!”

Jongin blinks, an apology threatening to bubble from his lips. “D-did I say something wrong?”

“No, you didn’t. My bad, that was a poor reaction from me.” Chanyeol reaches over to help pry Jongin’s fingers off the seat, a calloused hand comforting to the touch as he brushes over his own, bruised and a few paper cuts. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I’m okay,” says Jongin, and Chanyeol keeps his hand on Jongin’s.

And for that, he is thankful.

The familiar penthouse appears into view. Joonmyun often holds parties for the ballet company, filled with extravagant bars and sealed lips for his under-aged drinkers. Jongin used to be one of them, grabbing a wine glass with two hands and wrinkling up his nose after a whiff. There were some nights that Luhan and Yixing were whisked away to his house, not showing up until a day later, with a dopey grin and love bites tattooed into their collar bones. Jongin knows Sehun has a lot to say about those nights, but he never mentions it.

“This is it I think.” Chanyeol parks the car, his hand still on top of Jongin. They both wonder that if neither of them place a name for _this_ kind of touching, maybe they don’t have to worry. Jongin sinks back into his seat, face turning a little pale. “Jongin-ah. If you’re nervous I’m sure Joonmyun will understand.”

 _No he won’t._ “I’m fine, I’m good.” Chanyeol looks dubious, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he reaches over and unbuckles Jongin’s seatbelt for him, his breath tickling his ear. Out of instinct, Jongin wraps a hand around his arm, anxious eyes staring up at wide, gentle ones. “I’m not really,” he croaks, feeling ashamed. “What if he’s firing me from my spot? What if he thinks I’m not good enough? What if—”

“Stop.” Chanyeol wiggles out of his grasp, and Jongin flinches back, thinking Chanyeol will finally put a name to their touching. Strong arms encases Jongin instead, and he starts to wonder if this could even have a name. “In the shorts months I’ve known you, you’ve been an amazing dancer. I’ve seen you dance, it shows. It shows in your ankles and it shows in your face. He won’t fire you. I know he won’t.”

_Please don’t put a name to this touching._

_It’ll stop if you do._

“How can you sound so sure?”

“I’m not sure of many things,” Chanyeol admits. “But I’m absolutely dead set on this one. Trust me, Jongin.”

They finally hop out of the car together, the space between them small in reality but feels so foreign from their recent episodes. Chanyeol keeps his hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead. Unlike Jongin, who keeps his hands hiding under his sleeves and his gaze flickering between Chanyeol’s side view and his hands. Part of Jongin—a very large part—wants to grab and hold it tightly, like a lifeline. But there’s no name for it.

They keep their hands empty, both of them.

The elevator ride isn’t so quiet, Chanyeol asking him about his medication and if he’s feeling okay on them. Usually, Jongin doesn’t like talking about his medication, because it reminds him that he has to take it again in a few hours. But with Chanyeol, it doesn’t bother him. He is acquainted with the silence once more, but it only lasts a few seconds.

“Do you want me to wait out here?” Chanyeol asks when they near the door to Joonmyun’s. “I’m sure Joonmyun won’t mind if I came in with you, if you want.” Jongin shakes his head, even if he wants to say yes.

“I’ll be quick, I think. I’m not sure what Joonmyun wants to see me for.” Chanyeol nods, leaning up against the wall. He crosses his arm, keeping a steadied gaze on Jongin—an act of reassurance. Jongin folds his hand into a fist, ready to rap against the wooden door.

The door swings wide open, and Jongin hurries himself into a quick bow. “Good morning, well, afternoon Joonmyun-ssi.”

“…Jongin?”

Jongin freezes at the sound of his voice. Pulling himself back up, he looks right into Sehun’s wide eyes. His hair is neatly combed, and his button-down shirt of his is without a crease. Jongin remembers picking that out for him for his birthday last year. Sehun looks much older, a lot older than Jongin. “Sehun?” his jaw falls slacked. Chanyeol, surprised as well, appears by Jongin’s side. “What are you…why are you here?”

“Jongin,” Sehun says his name again, but this time, it is familiar and without hostility. Friendly, warm. As it should be. “Joonmyun just called me about some things. He didn’t mention about calling you up here, too. You should’ve told me, we could’ve gone up together.” Sehun looks behind Jongin’s shoulders. “Hi, Chanyeol.”

“Hello,” Chanyeol greets, albeit stiff. “It’s nice to see you, Sehun.”

Sehun nods, his boyish smile appearing like a signature. Jongin looks down, biting down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. “Hey, Jongin, are you alright?” he asks, concern lacing his words. He grabs Jongin’s wrists, soothing him with his thumbs running over his wrist bones. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were going, too. I’m sorry, Jongin.”

“It’s nothing,” Jongin mutters. “You should go, it’s your off-day.”

“I’ll wait for you. We can go eat street food tonight, it’s nice outside.”

Jongin shakes his head, too quickly and too hastily. “I have Chanyeol.” He looks around up at the tall elf. “He’s waiting for me. I’m spending the day with Chanyeol.” The man looks surprised, but doesn’t protest. When Sehun looks up with an arched eyebrow at the older man, all Chanyeol does is nod.

“It’s my off day, too. Don’t worry, Jongin is in good hands.”

“Are you sure, Jongin? We haven’t hung out in a while…”

Jongin wiggles out of Sehun’s grasp, and guilt whips across his chest when he sees hurt on Sehun’s face. “You have friends,” Jongin says, trying to keep his voice light. “A lot of friends. You should go hang out with them, in bars and stuff.” _Like you always do._

“Jongin…”

“Don’t drink too much!” Jongin says quickly throwing a quick hug onto Sehun. He relaxes against his friend’s chest; heart beating just as steady as when they were younger. “We still have ballet tomorrow. You don’t want to hurt yourself.”

Jongin gives Chanyeol a quick glance before hurrying into Joonmyun’s place, leaving the two men behind.

He can’t say the same for his own heart, which is beating too rapidly to be the norm. Jongin eases himself up against the door when it shuts, and he isn’t surprised at all to see Joonmyun sitting on his kitchen island, drinking out of a wine glass.

“Jongin!” he exclaims, spinning around on his hair. He looks exceptionally normal, with his hair untouched by gel and his feet tucked in with slippers. “Glad you got here in time. You ran into your best friend out there?”

There’s something sickening in his voice, and Jongin doesn’t know how to feel.

“Why was Sehun here?” he asks, words blurting out of his mouth. “Why would you call Sehunnie up here? Why do you want him?”

“So many questions,” Joonmyun whines. “Don’t you remember? Sehun is your backup, your understudy.”

Jongin shivers, but the penthouse itself is warm.

“I remember.”

Joonmyun shrugs. “Do you want a glass?” No. “Suit yourself then. I was just thinking I had to prepare Sehun as well, you know, in case anything goes wrong.” He beckons Jongin to sit down on the leather couch, littered with so many throw pillows that it’s ridiculous. He sits right next to him, his wine nearing spilling.

“Nothing will go wrong. I’ll do my best. I’m _doing_ my best.” Jongin digs his nails into his knee as he speaks, and Joonmyun most definitely notices. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll be Myrtha.”

For the longest time, Joonmyun just stares at Jongin. “You know,” he starts off, “I’m getting a lot of backlash. Do you know much about the dirty parts of the Seoul Theatre? It’s not publicly funded, you know.”

Jongin knows. Once or twice a year, there’s these ‘ _special’_ shows for their sponsors, and Luhan absolutely despises those nights. “Yes, I know.”

“We get the money from filthy rich sponsors. Old men in Windsor ties and wine-stained blazers. The likes. Well,” he leans in, and Joonmyun smells too minty for someone who just downed a glass. “They’re rather, _upset,_ with me. About the new showings.”

“W-why?”

Joonmyun leans back, sighing heavily. “Something about promoting homosexuality and transgender people. Which could be my motive, you never know. I’m all about controversy. But they’re not too…fond of how I casted. Females to male roles and males to females’. I don’t know what’s up their ass but they’re all being pissy about it. And poor lil’ Kim Joonmyun is getting the heat of it.”

Jongin nods. South Korea, built upon culture and high advancements towards cosmetics, education, and technology—is still shadowing their LGBT community like it’s a sin of some sorts. “What did…did they do anything bad to you?” he asks carefully, seeing how tired the director was behind that glass of wine and cozy clothes.

“To be quite frank, no. But they’re expecting this to be good. Real good, you hear? If they’re not too happy with me and my _artistic_ choices, imagine the audience.” Joonmyun takes the last drop of wine from the glass. “The expectations are high for me, and they’re going to be high for you, too.”

_Me._

“I want real heartbreak, I want you to cry on stage.” Joonmyun turns his entire body towards him, face firm and without a doubt. “I don’t want just a frowny face and a quivering lip, no, I want _more."_

Jongin looks down at his hands, which are too thin to be of any healthy sort. They’ll never be like Luhan’s though, whose fingers seems to be carved by a Goddess. “I can give you more,” he whispers, and he’s not sure that it’s audible enough for even himself to hear. “I can cry on stage. I can give real heartbreak.”

“And what is a heartbreak, Jongin?”

Jongin hesitates. _A heartbreak?_ Luhan talks about it all the time. Or at least, it seems like he does. When he cried, curled up in his messy bed and all Sehun and Jongin could do was watch the man who took care of them cry like a baby. When Yoora broke up with an abusive boyfriend, she cried too, and the entire neighborhood comforted her heartbreak for days. There’s something in Chanyeol’s body language that weeps of a heartbreak, too, even if Jongin’s not sure what it is.

“It hurts,” Jongin says, his words choppy. “A lot. It makes you sad.”

Joonmyun looks too amused. “Have you ever dated?”

“Dating?”

“You know. Romantically. Like had someone you could kiss, text, love. And Luhan doesn’t count,” Joonmyun suppresses a chuckle when Jongin’s eyes widens at the man’s name. “I wonder if it’ll break your heart, to know that Luhan doesn’t count. Not even in the slightest bit.”

“I know Lu doesn’t count,” Jongin says quickly. “He has a lot of lovers. Better lovers.”

“So you haven’t dated.” Jongin shakes his head. “That’s too bad, then. Who else have you had your heart broken by?”

_My sisters. My social worker. My family. You. Luhan. Sehun._

“N-no one, sir.”

Joonmyun stands up abruptly, as if he had enough. “Well, I’m not sure how you can be the King of broken hearts, if you never had your own broken. Listen, kid. You got a broken head,” he motions to his brain, and Jongin pretends that it doesn’t hurt. “But that’s only going to make you pitiful if you don’t have a broken heart to go with it. You can’t play Myrtha.”

Jongin shoots up, arms reaching out to Joonmyun. “You said I was sad enough, hyung!”

“Sad enough, depressed enough. Crazy enough,” Joonmyun shoulders off his grasp, “but not good enough. Tragic, I mean.” Joonmyun grabs a robe from a hanger, and swings it over his shoulders. It adds more depth to his lazy look, with the dark circles under his eyes speaking of another language that they both know too well.

“I can learn.” Jongin says it loud and clear, without a shake to his words. “I can…I can do that. I’m Jongin, I can learn.”

“ _Learn?"_

Jongin wonders that if he were Luhan, would Luhan slap the grin off Joonmyun’s face?

“I can learn,” Jongin repeats. “I’ll go get my heart broken, I’ll…I’ll make you proud. I’ll be good enough. But please, please, don’t replace me just yet. I haven’t showed myself yet.” Joonmyun pours himself another glass of wine, except this time, it goes all the way to brim, as if he really wants to spill it.

“Go ahead.” Joonmyun shrugs half-heartedly. “I like your determination. Reminds me why we took you in—I liked that look in your eyes back then. It’s pleasing to see it again.”

Jongin tilts his head in a bow, and hurries out of the door, chest rising too rapidly and his eyes stinging. He’s not sure why he’s surprised to see Chanyeol right where he said he’d be, but Chanyeol grabs him when Jongin stumbles, and he feels so _safe, so secured._ It’s not a hug, it’s not. It doesn’t have a name at all.

“Jongin, hey, hey, hey it’s okay. Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Chanyeol holds him tightly, his watch poking at the back of his head when his wrist brushes past. “It’s okay, don’t cry. Don’t cry.”

The hallway of Joonmyun’s place is fit for a king, the lights a bright gold and the flooring of red Persian rugs. The only things standing out are the two people slumped up against a wall, two tall men who seem too small in this rich corridor. Jongin doesn’t _really_ know why he’s crying. Was it what Joonmyun said? Did it hurt because it was true? He doesn’t know.

“Hey, hey,” Chanyeol’s words stir Jongin’s hair. He keeps hiccuping into Chanyeol’s chest, and his face is red with embarrassment. “It’s alright, Jongin. Jongin, it’s alright. What did he do?”

“N-nothing.” Jongin shakes his head, taking comfort in the fact that Chanyeol can’t call him a liar. “He didn’t do anything.”

“Why are you crying?” Chanyeol asks, his voice gentle. Like a surge of warmth, Jongin finds himself at ease against the man. “Jongin, tell me.”

Jongin grabs a fistful of Chanyeol’s shirt, careful not to dig his nails into his skin. It’s a habit that leaves Sehun’s chest a little bit clawed at and red after bad nights. “I don’t know,” he breathes out. His crying is more muffled now, and he wonders if Joonmyun can hear him. And if he’s taking glee in the boy’s tears. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

Chanyeol pulls him away, keeping his hands on his and rubbing soothing circles over them. Jongin shuts his eyes, unwilling to look up at him. “Please, look at me.”

“I-I don’t want to.”

Jongin thrashes around in Chanyeol’s grasp, the little space between his brow and eye pinching and he hisses with pain. _Migraines? Oh, no._ Jongin whimpers, pulling a hand away from the man to clutch at his right temple. _Don’t stress don’t stress don’t dON’T strESS DON’t stRESS—_

Jongin isn’t sure if Chanyeol is still talking to him or not. Prying his eyes open, he sees him up close, all his imperfections on display against his skin. His lips are moving rapidly, mouthing and shaping each word that Jongin doesn’t hear. He winces, the dull throbbing in his forehead lashing out at him without much care.

“Hyung,” he murmurs, or at least he thinks he murmured. “Can’t…can’t hear. I can’t hear.”

Chanyeol’s face morphs into incredulity.

“Can’t,” Jongin tugs at his ear, wiping away furiously at his eyes. “Hear. Hyung, I can’t hear.”

That confusion is stricken with realization within moments, and Jongin finds Chanyeol’s hands under his arms, lifting him up with ease. Jongin squeals, if his brain tells him correctly. Ballet dancers, the male ones, take pride in carrying the girls with grace and poise. Ryeowook often brags about how he still manages to ‘ _look like a swan while carrying a princess’,_ and that comment usually gets him a soft punch on the arm or the stomach.

Chanyeol lifts him up so easily, as if he were made of feathers and ribbons.

Jongin opens his mouth to protest, but Chanyeol quickly wraps one arm around his slender waist, securing him in his grasp. He brings a finger up to Jongin’s lips, gently shushing him. Chanyeol maneuvers him onto his back, Jongin wrapping his arms around his neck. Jongin wraps his arms around his neck. _I can walk,_ he thinks, _hyung, I can walk, believe me._ Except he doesn’t say anything, because he likes the way he can rest his face against the back of Chanyeol’s neck, and they don’t have to put a name on it.

Jongin remembers faint nights of carrying Luhan on his back, when the latter got too drunk and wouldn’t speak in any other tongue than his native one. No one could understand him, except for Yixing, who never bothered to translate. But Jongin did, he could pick out some parts of it with ease, such as, ‘ _it’s so cold, honey’,_ or ‘ _don’t turn off the lights, I’m scared’._

Jongin never translated those to Sehun, it’s better that way.

His head aches, but it’s not so bad. Chanyeol carries them both with ease towards the elevator. Jongin makes a move to peel himself off of Chanyeol, but the man pushes him back up, and shakes his head as if to say no.

Jongin keeps his arms around Chanyeol, and thinks up ways to say sorry without actually saying it. Yixing says the best way to apologize is with a kiss, and he remembers kissing Sehun on the forehead when he bruises himself, or kissing Luhan on the teeth when he doesn’t hold him at night.

 _No,_ the voice in his head tells him, _Chanyeol isn’t like them._

_But why?_

Somewhere in between Joonmyun’s place and the car, Jongin manages to get himself off Chanyeol without any words. The elder keeps a protective hold on Jongin though, a hand at his waist, as if Jongin were to tip over any moment.

The street sounds start to come alive, like the unmistakable sound of Seoul traffic and soft music from opened windows. Jongin whirls around so that he faces Chanyeol. “Ah,” he says, making Chanyeol look back at him. “I can hear now, Chanyeol.”

He wonders if it’s just the trick of a light, but Chanyeol’s shoulders relaxes. “You scared me.”

“It was my…the things you saw in my medical papers…”

Chanyeol frowns, but it’s not one of those bad kinds of frowns. “I know.”

They do the expected; seatbelts and getting the engine ready. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Jongin says mournfully. “I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“No,” Chanyeol says, his voice rough. Jongin jerks back. “You _should_ say something if it’s hurting you. Don’t keep quiet, okay? If you get those…episodes.”

Jongin nods.

“You know, I know some people who study in neurological disorders. I can contact them and ask about your case.” Chanyeol flashes a worried glance over at him.

Jongin shakes his head. “It’s no use. I’ve gone to so many doctors. I’m one of those rare cases.” _A freak._

Chanyeol sighs. “You can’t think like that. You’ll just hurt yourself.”

Jongin looks outside. “I don’t really want to talk about this. Not yet.” He runs his hand up and down his arm, trying to take in heat. “Are you busy today? The rest of the day?”

“Not really.” Chanyeol looks over questionably. “Are you going to tell me why you were crying, though?”

“Maybe.” Jongin tugs on his belt. “Can you spend the day with me? I want to go to a bar.”

Chanyeol’s eyes hardens. “You shouldn’t be drinking Jongin.”

“Why?” Jongin’s shoulders fall hopelessly. “I’m legal, I’m an adult. I just want to.”

“But you say you’re not good with your drinks.” Chanyeol looks frustrated, though it’s masked by his glasses and concentration. “Drinking and ballet tomorrow, it’s just not good.”

“I know I’m not good with my drinks,” Jongin says quietly. “That’s why I want _you_ to come with me. I trust you, hyung. I really trust you.”

Chanyeol doesn’t say anything, but he’s not protesting either. Jongin reaches over and puts his hand on Chanyeol’s, and the latter stiffens. “Will you promise me you’ll tell me what happened?” he asks, sounding tired.

“Yes.”

Chanyeol nods, and lets Jongin’s hand stay there.

♕♕♕

The _Locker Room_ is really one of the only bars in Yeonhui. It’s one of Luhan’s complaints, who blatantly suggested they replace all of the cafes and coffee shops with whiskey and sake bars. It’s nowhere near Sehun and Luhan’s favorite bars; their variation of drinks are limited, with maybe imported IPA if you’re lucky and a menu of perhaps three or four beers on tap.

Jongin likes this bar best, though. The lack of people makes it more like a secret hangout for the depressed or the loners. It’s dim enough that no one sees other people’s faces, and every conversation is left unheard, thanks to the loud TVs playing reruns of football games.

“Bars in the dead afternoon,” Chanyeol says. “You’re really something, Jongin.”

“I like it best then. There’s not a lot of people.” Jongin hurries to sit down on one of the stools, Chanyeol following suit with a wary look to his eyes. Chanyeol has gotten a few calls, but shuts his phone off before returning a kind face to Jongin. “There’s some cocktails here if you like that, I think. And french fries and wings are the go-to. Sorry if I seem overbearing.”

“No apologies,” says Chanyeol, but he doesn’t seem to mean it. There’s two older men out near the dart area, laughing and wheezing each time one of them misses with their darts. When the bartender comes over looking dubious, Chanyeol orders them both the same kind of beer. “What’s on your mind?”’

Jongin looks down. “Straight to the point, Chanyeol.”

“I’m just worried.”

“I know,” Jongin sighs. “I know that. You care a lot, I’m thankful for someone like you.”

The beers come cold and pre-opened. Chanyeol pours them both a glass, and Jongin notices how little is in his.

They scoot closer to each other, because the sound of twenty televisions leaves no room for indoor voices. “Joonmyun just says that I’m not…I’m not good enough alone.” It’s funny, because his throat feels like it’s lined with thorns. “He says it’s because I haven’t gotten my heart broken. Romantically.” Jongin brings the glass to his lips, and the bitterness washes out the spikes in his mouth. “What does that mean, Chanyeol? A romantic heart break?”

Chanyeol’s face softens. “He told you that? You’re young, he shouldn’t expect you to already have your heart broken.” He breathes into his glass and it fogs up. “A romantic heart break is just like any other heart break. It leaves you feeling a lot less than you were before.”

Jongin doesn’t like the taste of beer, but he continues to sip at it. “Have you gotten your heart broken before?” he asks.

Chanyeol looks conflicted. “I’m not sure.” He gives Jongin a once over. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go find some girl to break your heart for this role, because it’s not worth it.”

Jongin smiles, even if it’s rather dry. “The only girls who broke my heart were my sisters. I don’t think girls like me like that.” Jongin wonders what is funnier, the old men in the back struggling to rip the dart off the board, or Chanyeol’s surprised face. “What?” he asks, looking down at himself. “Is there something on my face?”

“Do you not like…do you not like girls?”

Jongin frowns. Why does Chanyeol sound so scandalized asking that. “I like girls,” Jongin says, sticking out his bottom lip. “I like girls, boys, I like everyone.”

Chanyeol clears his throat, and tugs at his collar. “No, no, I meant…romantically. Like someone you’d date.”

Jongin looks down at his drink, he reaches for the bottle to pour himself another glass, and this time, it sloshes around the cup thanks to his messy hand. He lets Chanyeol’s words sink into his skin. _Oh, that kind of liking._ The idea that got Joonmyun in trouble with their sponsors. The kind of loving that has Luhan stuck in his soloist position instead of where he’s supposed to be—at top with all the other principals. Except he’s not, because they don’t like scandals and controversy at the top of their food chain.

“I don’t know,” Jongin says honestly. Part of him feels ashamed to say that, but the other part isn’t sure why. “I don’t have a real preference. I think…I think I just want someone who’ll like me.”

“That’s such an innocent answer.” Jongin looks up for any mockery in Chanyeol, but there is none. There’s just an unreadable expression accompanied with the curl of lip that he has found himself so familiar with. “I think the word is bisexual.”

“Bisexual? What does that mean?” Jongin asks, genuinely curious. He knows what _sexual_ mean. Luhan likes that word a lot. But not what _bi_ means, now that, he’s not quite sure.

Chanyeol looks uncomfortable again. “Ah, how do I put this. You like boys and girls. As in you’d be attracted to either?” Chanyeol tries, his face heating up. “I’m not good with explaining, that is embarrassing.”

Jongin looks pleased. “Oh! I see.” He holds his glass of beer close to his chest. “So I like girls and boys. I’d kiss either one of them?”

“I guess you can say that.”

Jongin beams, and almost all of his negative feelings fade. “What about you, hyung? Who would you kiss?” he asks, scooting even closer so that their elbows rub up against each other. The dim lighting makes Chanyeol look ageless, and Jongin just wants to reach up and push back his hair that tickles his glasses.

Chanyeol pales, and it’s noticeable even in shitty lights. “Me?” he points to himself, and his finger shakes only a bit.

“Yes, hyung.”

Chanyeol scratches the nape of his neck. “I don’t know if I should…”

Jongin blinks, and he’ll be a liar if he says he’s not hurt. “Why?” he asks, recoiling back. “I thought you’d trust me, Chanyeol. Did I say something wrong?”

Chanyeol turns around, shocked. “No, it’s not like that!” he says hastily. “It’s just, we uh, live in an awkward society. In South Korea, I mean. Some people aren’t too accepting of all sexualities yet.” Jongin nods again, remembering what Joonmyun was talking about in his penthouse. “Where I studied abroad, in Canada, it wasn’t a problem. Canada is a little different from Korea. Their views differ.”

“I am accepting,” Jongin says firmly, pointing to himself with both his hands after he sets his drink down. “I promise I can accept. Lulu says I’m very good with accepting things.”

This time, Chanyeol laughs loudly, and the two old men glance over their shoulders to see what’s so funny. “You’re too cute,” Chanyeol says quietly, ruffling up Jongin’s hair. The latter yelps in protest. “Thanks, Jongin. I guess I can trust you then, Mr. Acceptor.”

“I like that title.”

“I’m gay,” Chanyeol says shakily. The bartender is in the far corner, drying down glasses with ear buds in. “It means I like boys, just boys.” Jongin tilts his head, wondering what all the big fuss is about, with sexuality. Chanyeol looks sick talking about it, and Jongin just wants to take him in and hold him _close._

He wonders if these thoughts are okay.

“Boys?” Jongin echoes, keeping his voice low because Chanyeol is quiet. “Oh, okay.”

Chanyeol looks taken back, before bursting into chuckles. “You’re so calm about these subjects.”

“I kissed boys before,” Jongin chirps. “I kissed girls, too. They’re the same. Hyung, you’re okay. You’re okay to me.” Jongin reaches over to hold Chanyeol’s hand again, and he’s not sure why he keeps doing that. Maybe it’s a comfort thing, or perhaps it’s just their thing.

“You’re so good to me.” Chanyeol says it with such warmth that the alcohol in Jongin’s system makes his stomach feel funny. He knows he’s not too well on his drinks, with a few sips he considers himself tipsy enough that Sehun often has to hold him by the sides to keep him from wandering. He knows that without a thought, Chanyeol would do the same. “I’m rather thankful for the only friend I have here so far, and that it’s you.”

“Really?”

“Not…everyone is really accepting. You just view the world differently,” Chanyeol continues. “I hope you keep viewing the world like that. It’s much too harsh for someone good like you. I hope you don’t change.”

“I’ll try not to,” Jongin says automatically.

He’s not sure how long they’re there for. In between finishing the first bottle and before Chanyeol pours them a second one, the bar gets busy. It gets filled with a handful of three under-aged high schoolers, the bartender not bothering to check for their age because all they’re doing is hanging around the TVs without much care. To an outsider’s perspective, they’re drinking their heart away on Hite for celebratory purposes. But in all honesty, they’re drinking their paranoia away, that once they step outside the bar—secrets of sexuality may appear to be taboo.

“Don’t tell,” Chanyeol murmurs, holding his head up with his arm. “My sister knows. I don’t know how she feels about it, but don’t tell.”

Jongin nods, hiccuping in between. “Is me being a _bisexual_ bad?” he asks, voice a little hollow out of drunkenness. “Will people shame me?”

Chanyeol, the poised and polite Chanyeol, is drunk. “People will tell you that you’re confused. An attention-seeker, so don’t you listen to them.” Chanyeol points at him with an unsteady finger. “Don’t ever let people tell you who to like. That you’re confused or that you’re different. You can like girls and you can kiss boys. You’re _not_ confused.”

“I’m not confused,” Jongin echoes, washing his dry mouth down with beer. _I’m not confused, I’m not confused, I’m not, I’m not. I can like girls and I can kiss boys. I’m not confused. I’m not different. Don’t tell me who I like. I am not, confused._

Something clicks in his head, and Jongin isn’t sure what.

Chanyeol cards a hand through his hair, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed. He looks like a college student, one that sneaks out to local street bars and drinks too many cheap shots. And for once, Jongin doesn’t feel like a _child_ next to him. It’s alien, but he likes it.

“I told you my secret,” Chanyeol tries his best not to slur, “tell me yours? Jongin, I feel so _naked._ You know my secret. You know, that secret can get me…” he lowers his voice, and for a split second, he looks too serious to be drunk. “Fired. It could get me _fired._ ”

“I don’t want you fired,” Jongin protest, a little too loudly. The high schooler looks up and snorts, before turning his eyes back to the television to cheer on the winning team. “I like you too much. You’re my favorite doctor in the physio. But don’t tell Jongdae-ssi that.”

“Not a doctor.” Chanyeol refills both of their glasses. “I’m not a doctor at all.”

He’s right, neither of them are good with their drinks.

“Does hyung want to know my secret?” Jongin asks, face too bright and red to be of any normality. “Sehun doesn’t know, and Luhan doesn’t either. It’ll just be yours to keep. I’ll sell it to you!”

“Sell it to me?” Chanyeol asks wryly. “What am I paying?”

Jongin holds up the glass, even if his brain is fighting it. _You hate to drink. Fuck, fuck, you hate alcohol, what are you doing?_ “Another a round!”

A bit of the polite Chanyeol is fighting. “Maybe we’ve drank a little too much.”

“No, we haven’t.”

Chanyeol’s looks up at the bar, and down at their seats. “Why don’t we sit down at the empty sofas?” he suggests, blinking a bit to clear his thoughts. It’s clear he has a practiced hand in this, pretending to be sober when you’re really not. “I don’t want you tipping over and falling on those tall stools.”

“Tall, like you.”

“You’re tall, too.”

Chanyeol holds him close by the waist when they’re going to the couches. It’s a lot more intimate this time, and Jongin thinks the name is somewhere near by. Chanyeol coaxes Jongin to settle down onto the comfy seat, curling up against the fake leather. “Oh, I like this. It’s softer than the bar stools.” Jongin grins up at Chanyeol, who sits down gingerly next to him. The younger is a lot more drunk than he is, and it’s shown by the blood that rushes to their faces.

Chanyeol pries the drink out of his hand, and Jongin lets him.

“I have so many secrets,” Jongin mumbles. “I can sell you them all.”

“That’s okay.”

Jongin falls back onto the couch, and his head sinks into the cushion. “I’ll tell you my favorite secret. I think it’s a nice secret.” He counts the number of times he has spoken of this _secret_ ; two times. One to himself, and the second time was to the sister who’s too far away now to really count.

The high school boys are on the other side of the room, on the edge of the seat as the football game starts to rattle up points. The old neighborhood men are ordering meals that their wives would scold them for, and the two of them are in the darker part of the bar. He’s glad that the lights back here don’t work as well, because it means that Chanyeol won’t see how terrified Jongin really is.

“What day is it today, Chanyeol?” Jongin asks, even if he already knows.

“Monday, it’s Monday.”

Jongin nods. “Sunday was yesterday. I remembered that day like it was yesterday too. It’s one of my favorite memories. Those days were meant for families. The king that wakes up too early without an alarm and laughed with morning breath.” Jongin feels too sober for this story, but his throat burns too much for another swing of beer. “That’s what we did. Well, my sisters. They don’t talk about their brother, much less _talk to him._ Sundays were for their boyfriends and them. I spent Sundays at church.”

“Religious?” Chanyeol asks, looking sleepy from the alcohol.

Jongin remembers the church in their suburb neighborhood back when he was younger. When ballet classes were all he had and rolled up socks for flats. The church was small and the only thing pretty about their street back then, which were full of rickety ladders that lead up to the misfits of families.

He shrugs. “You can call it that. That’s what they named it, me going to church and not coming back for hours.” Jongin makes a big gesture with his hands, as if to show a picture. “I climbed into this window—it was always left opened by the pastor who smoked. No one knew he smoke, except for me. He kept it opened so the place still smelled holy afterward. I was small enough back then to fit through the stained glass. See these scars though?” he asks, pulling up his shirt. A few pretty scars that sticks out, looking like whip lashes when they’re really just poor secrets.

Chanyeol’s face is like a faerie under the dim lights. “Yeah, I see them.”

Jongin would be the King of Deceit, should he pretend that he doesn’t shiver when Chanyeol brushes over his scars. He pulls his shirt down hastily.

“His name was Zitao, the boy at church. No one goes to church in the afternoon. It’s family time then. So, it was just him and me.”

“Go on.” His breath is so close to Jongin’s ear, and they both tell themselves it’s just an accident.

There were chairs in front, with a place for them to kneel. Father said it was because it kept the people’s knees from getting all red on the wooden floor. Jongin remembers it too well, the details of the holy building ingrained into his skin. He always wore shorts that stopped right above his knees, because Zitao said he liked keeping his hand there. ‘ _Bony_ ’, the boy had told him in broken Korean.

“We called—well, _I_ called him Zitao. He could’ve been lying. He had scrawny legs just like me, and black, static-like hair. We sat on the altar in front with God, with the place smelling like the cigarettes Father left behind.” He smiles ruefully. It’s funny, because Jongin never saw Zitao outside of church. On Sunday masses and the occasional holiday ones, he saw the tuft of charcoal hair combed nicely, courtesy of what he thought was his mother beside him.

“Did you pray?”

“We kissed. Right in front of God.” He picks at his scabs through the ripped jeans. “I don’t think it was holy.”

Chanyeol coughs violently, face comedic and his hair all messy. “Is that your secret?” he asks. “It’s a good one. I don’t have many secrets like that. Ones with stories and all.”

Jongin nods. He wonders if they’re actually drunk, both of them, or if they’re just pretending for the other’s sake. “Won’t you tell me yours?”

“I’m not drunk enough for that.” Chanyeol sets both of their drinks on the table, which is littered in bachelor magazines and an ash tray. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I came out to you.” He buries his face into his hands, hanging his face over his knees. “Not that I didn’t want to come out to you, but it’s sort of…sort of a difficult topic to tackle.”

Jongin falls back onto the seat, bringing his knees to his chest so that he’s completely on the couch. “Why are we like this?” he thinks out loud. “You know my illness, my sexuality, and _everything._ ”

Chanyeol blinks. “It’s not an illness. Jongin, don’t do that to yourself.”

“It’s an illness, alright,” Jongin says dryly. “It’s so restricting, you know? Not too many people know, only a handful. The rest just think I’m crazy,” he yawns, “a fuck up. A freak.” _Alice in Wonderland._

Jongin blinks up wearily at the clock. Five already? Have they been here for that long? “You’re not,” Chanyeol mutters, obviously ready to collapse into sleep. “You’re not a freak at all. You’re not a fuck up, and you’re not crazy.” Jongin hasn’t heard him swear too often, and it sounds so rich and alarming when he does.

“You sound so sure.”

“I am sure.”

The _Locker Room_ isn’t Luhan’s most optimal bar, but Jongin consciously marks it as his favorite place now. The dim lights that shades both their faces, and how messy Chanyeol’s hair is. He blames it on the alcohol for that sense of urgency in him, to run his fingers through his hair even if it’s not right. Except they’re both lightweights, and no amount of bottles or cans can take the blame for that.

“So, how are we going to drive home?” Chanyeol asks in a heavy voice, like he can fall asleep any moment now.

 _Home._ Jongin wonders what that means for Chanyeol. To Jongin, it means the red house. But it doesn’t always have to be that way. “We’re in Yeonhui, not your Busan city.” Jongin heaves himself up, the bartender now gone and probably out back for a drag. “We can walk from downtown and back. Maybe even stop by Yonsei, all by feet.” Jongin offers Chanyeol a hand, helping him up.

“So I just leave my car here? That’s irresponsible.” Jongin looks back for any signs of worry on the elder’s face, but there is none. “Really irresponsible.”

Jongin plays with the frayed ends of his sleeves. He’ll have to buy new clothes, especially with spring so near. “I’m young, classified as a child.” He looks up at Chanyeol and smiles. It’s not a drunken smile, it’s not. It’s one that makes both of them feel warm even without the alcohol. “I can get away with irresponsibilities. That’s what Sehun always tells me.”

And it’s true. The bruises and the forgetfulness when it comes to eating, the ‘ _adults_ ’ all pass it off as a irresponsibilities. ‘ _Oh, don’t expect too much of him. He’s only seventeen.’_ That saying is exchanged for his eighteen years, his nineteens, and up to his twenties. But times like this, Jongin doesn’t mind it so much, because the only responsibility of his is to take his lil’ medication and to be a good liar.

The sun is still bright outside, and he wonders how Luhan will react to him being a little too dazed for broad sunlight. He’ll call him a _dumb sweetheart,_ or a _fuckin’ bastard._ Maybe. Oh, but Jongin doesn’t mind, he doesn’t mind at all.

Chanyeol looks back at his car parked on the edge. Grinning, he stuffs his keys in his pocket and stumbles closer to Jongin. They don’t feel the wind at all, giggling and chuckling through the street. “Where are we going?” Jongin asks, looping his arm around his. He tells himself it’s to keep himself on support, but that’s a lie. “The clinic? Are we going to say hi hi to noona?”

Chanyeol snorts. “It’s a clinic, I don’t think they want to see one of their Doctors wasted.”

It’s the first time Jongin heard him call himself a Doctor.

“Where to then? Where are we going?”

“To Wonderland.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Chanyeol video edit by [@kaisces](https://www.instagram.com/kaisces/?hl=en) ^^
>
>> [A video posted by hyo (@kaisces)](https://www.instagram.com/p/BIk0LP0gQ-p/) on Aug 1, 2016 at 10:55am PDT


	11. A Sweet Man

Apparently, _Wonderland_ is Chanyeol’s home, consisting of Yoora’s lawn decoration of small cute fences and a turtle rock next to a patch of dirt. “What are you growing?” Jongin points to the small garden. “Flowers?”

Chanyeol nods. “Yoora likes flowers. But she can’t garden at all. Her hands are too delicate.” Jongin glances over at Chanyeol’s hands. They’re big and decorated with a watch on the wrist. They’re far from delicate. “Roses. We’re growing a rose garden.”

“It’ll be pretty.”

Chanyeol shrugs, taking out his keys. “You should come over when it starts to bloom. You can see for yourself if it’s pretty.”

Jongin has only been into the Park house a few times, but never when Chanyeol moved into the neighborhood. It’s a lot more roomier than their red house, and neater too. A rack of shoes organized—except for the high heels laying around. The table on the side has photographs of mostly Yoora, and post-it notes to remind that ‘ _Client Lee at 7 AM Wednesday’_ and ‘ _Don’t forget to pick up groceries from Saruga’._ One of them is obviously Chanyeol’s writing, with the hasty Hangul telling him that he was rushing.

It’s no secret that he feels like a stranger in their home.

“You can take off your shoes there.” Chanyeol points to the rack. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll try to make coffee? I don’t know, is it okay to drink coffee when you’re drunk?” he asks sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. Jongin just shrugs, too busy trying to take off his shoes.

“Hyung, what are you doing?” Jongin squints at him, who is too busy typing—or trying to—on his phone.

Chanyeol doesn’t respond right away. “Searching up if you can drink coffee when you’re drunk.”

Jongin sits down in the living room. It’s a lot different from theirs. When he was younger, he had this _idea_ that every living room was the same. That every bedroom, every kitchen and bathroom worked the same way. But now he knows, because not every house has a ‘special bathroom’ where Luhan hides in after a big meal, and the occasional Sehun. This living room is neat, like one of those TV family ones. “Would Yoora mind me being here?” he asks, looking around. “I feel like I’m intruding.”

Chanyeol is still on his phone. “I live here, too. You’re not, don’t worry, my sister adores you.” He plops down next to Jongin, making the latter bounce. “It’s still so funny to say that. ‘I live here, too’. Feels weird.”

“Why?” Jongin asks, nudging him.

Chanyeol shrugs, his eyes more alert but his sloppy smile gives it away. “I never stayed in one place long enough.” He tosses his phone aside. “By the way, no coffee. We apparently shouldn’t have coffee when we’re drunk.”

“Are we drunk?” Jongin teases.

It’s not winter anymore, so the sun sets later. Chanyeol reaches over Jongin to grab a throw over fleece, tossing it over the two of them. “It’s cold in here usually. And yes, yes we are drunk.” He leans in to _bop_ his nose, his finger dabbing gently at Jongin’s nose.

So intimate.

“Tell me more about how it is living with your Todd syndrome,” Chanyeol says quietly, startling Jongin. His lips are close to his ear, and he acts as if he is asking for a bedtime story. “I don’t remember well after I drink. Don’t worry, I’ll forget it. I’m just curious.”

Jongin hesitates. How does he describe it? How can he say that it’s like being on drugs, without admitting that he had dabbled in some? He pulls up the blanket so that it sits on his chin. Their bodies are close to each other, and it’s hot under the fleece.

“Well,” Jongin starts off by pulling his hands out under himself. Chanyeol’s eyes follow them, before flickering back to him. “Have you ever read Alice in Wonderland?”

“I like children books.” Chanyeol suppresses a yawn. “Yes, I have.”

_Are you falling down the rabbit hole, Alice?_

“Those ‘DRINK ME’ bottles, it’s like my veins are full of them. Constantly, and it’s like a time bomb, waiting for it to go off.” He looks at said veins, the way they branch off under tan skin and travel up to the back of his hand. “Sometimes I hear things, loud or nothing at all. Or that,” he points to the clock at the end, making Chanyeol look up. “It’ll slow down or go too fast for me.”

Chanyeol shivers. “That sounds terrifying.”

“You get used to it.” _Liar, you fucking liar,_ because no one ever gets used to it. And no one should ever have to. “Alice gets bigger or smaller than the room she’s in. Like her arm is too large for her body and it’s burdening—or she feels like she can’t walk because her feet are smaller than her shoes. I…I feel like that. I feel like that.”

_Drink me Alice, oh, drink me._

Chanyeol sits up straighter. “Is it hard for you? When you dance?”

Jongin winces, thinking of the bruises under his jeans that travels all the way to his inner thighs. “Sometimes it happens when I dance. I get bruises, and that’s usually it. I don’t often get more than that.” _If I’m lucky._ “That’s why Jongdae-ssi says I’m the physio’s favorite, I’m always there.” He laughs weakly, and Chanyeol doesn’t buy it.

“I’m sorry.”

Jongin shakes his head. “Don’t. No apologies, hyung. There’s nothing you can do, anyways. It’ll go away. It _should’ve_ gone away.”

Chanyeol takes the blanket off of himself, and wraps it around Jongin entirely. The younger boy keeps his sleepy gaze on the man, who stands up to give him more room. He opens his mouth to say something, but Chanyeol shakes his head. “You’re obviously tired. We have a guest room upstairs. I’ll go set the sheets down and you can sleep there. If you’re comfortable with that…?”

Jongin lets it all sink in. “Are you asking me to stay the night?”

Chanyeol looks embarrassed. “I’m just worried what your roommates will say if you go home drunk.”

“I’m not even sure they’re home. I think they’re out, having fun.” He covers his face with the fleece. “Is that really okay? Are you okay with me staying over? What will Yoora say…”

“She won’t say anything. You’re not a stranger to her.” Chanyeol rubs his eyes with a closed fist. It doesn’t take a genius to tell that Chanyeol is the most sober out of the two of them. “You should call Sehun though. He seemed worked up at Joonmyun’s place. He was asking about you, worried about you.”

Jongin nods, biting down on his lip. He’s not sure if he wants to talk to Sehun right now. Questions are overflowing in his head, like asking why he was at their director’s place, why won’t he hold his hand anymore in the shower, and if Sehun will forgive him. _Too many questions,_ he thinks, but flashes a smile that sends Chanyeol on his way to the guest room.

“I’ll be back,” Chanyeol says, and hurries upstairs with heavy feet.

Jongin pulls out his phone. It has been vibrating and going off the entire time. If Chanyeol had noticed, he didn’t say anything. The screen is littered with messages from Sehun, a few from Soojung, and maybe two from Luhan. He hasn’t realized that he has been holding his breath, and lets it out in one shaky go.

He presses play on one of the voice mails from Sehun, and brings it close to his ear.

 

_Hey, uh, Jongin. It’s me. Of course you know it’s me, hah…I just wanted to call because I want to talk to you. You’re out with Chanyeol, I see. But if you get my message, can you step aside so you can hear what I have to say? I’m sorry if I haven’t been—_

_Jongin, please pick up. I’m home, so if you come home I’m here. We can watch Wolf Children again, for maybe like the sixth time. I don’t know. If I had upset you because of Joonmyun, please, it wasn’t my intention. He just called and…I can explain it in person._

— _Are you still with Chanyeol? He must be fun, for you not to pick up. I’m sorry to bother you, Jonginnie. You should go have fun with him but I’m just, I don’t want you to misunderstand me. When you come home, can we talk? I’ll make dinner._

_Sorry, this is like the fourth or fucking fifth one. It’s been all day and I think I’ll let you be. Whenever you come back, can you wake me up? I really want to talk to you. Sorry about the whole Joonmyun thing, I swear, it’s all a misunderstanding. I wouldn’t ever take your role. You of all people deserve it more than anyon—_

 

Jongin pulls the phone away from his ear, as if it were burning him. Burying his face into the blanket, he breathes out heavily in choppy intervals. “Sehun,” he mutters, feeling the weight on his shoulders crush him to his limit. “I’m sorry.”

(f O r G R o w I ng u P)

The Park living room is too quiet for his taste, with the clock on the wall ticking too slowly for him. Looking around, he sees more of Yoora than of Chanyeol. It’s evident in the small book shelf under the television, with romantic erotica that has the older woman’s name scribbled all over it. A cute decoration of bobbing Rilakkuma dolls sitting next to the alarm clock with some H.O.T member’s face on it. Jongin can’t help but laugh at it, and the guilt frays a bit at the edges when he does so.

“Jongin!” he hears Chanyeol call for him from upstairs. “I made the bed for you!”

“Okay!” Jongin yells back, hastily folding up the blankets on the sofa before hurrying up stairs. It’s not so much that he’s drunk—it all wore off some twenty minutes ago—but more so giddy and feeling so _light,_ everywhere. He halts in his steps at the top of the stairs. “Hyung, where are you?” he asks into the air, staring at the hallway with conflict. “I mean, which way are you?”

Jongin sees a head poke out of the door on the right, with his ashy hair sticking out with his smile. “Here, buddy.” He beckons for him to follow in, and Jongin tries his best not to slip on the waxy floor with his socks.

The guest room is cozy, with a bed in the middle of the room and a desk mostly empty except for the printer and the cup stuffed with pens and pencils. “I sometimes do my work in here,” Chanyeol admits, motioning to the desk. “It’s the farthest away from Yoora’s, and she plays her music really loudly at night sometimes.” It pulls a smile out of Jongin, and maybe that was what he was going for.

“Thanks Chanyeol.” Jongin sits down on the edge of the bed. “Are you really sure it’s okay for me to stay the night? I’m not feeling so bad with the alcohol right now. I don’t think I should bother you—” he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before his wrists are grabbed by Chanyeol. He yelps, startled.

“Stop thinking you’re bothering me, Jongin. I wouldn’t have offered if it had bothered me.” His hold around Jongin’s wrist isn’t tight, but rather gentle and cautious. “You’ll have to walk even if you end up going home and look, it’s getting darker now. You shouldn’t be walking around when it’s dark, even if it’s Yeonhui.”

“But I’m a boy,” Jongin protests, but his smile says otherwise.

Chanyeol chuckles. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less your attacker in the worst scenario.” He pats down on the bed. “It’s been a long day, and it’s been…healing for me? I guess? I had fun today, and thank you for letting me open up to you. Now, let me repay you by,” he coaxes Jongin into laying down onto a stack of pillows, “letting you sleep, okay? You’re obviously tired.”

A yawn. “I’m not really.”

“Liar.”

“Hyung.”

Chanyeol looks more serious now, but it’s not the bad kind of serious. Jongin complies, and keeps himself snuggled under the thick sheets. It smells like lavender, and he wonders if the former had sprayed some lavender scent onto the sheets; just for him. _Chanyeol-ah._ The older man reaches over to dim the lamps, lulling Jongin further into dreamland, wonderland.

“Did you call Sehun to tell him you’re sleeping here?”

Jongin hasn’t. But he nods anyways, and Chanyeol buys into it. He rakes his hand through his hair, and Jongin eases into it, feeling comfort and warmth and _everything fuzzy._

He wonders how they ended up like this. From dubbing him as the ‘bachelorette’s little brother’ to sleeping in his guest bed, curled up with him on the edge of it. Their breaths don’t smell like candy or honey, but imported beer and toothpaste. Jongin shuts his eyes, his phone off and sitting on the nightstand as Chanyeol crouches down to pull the boy down to sleep.

“Is this weird for you?” Jongin asks softly, when the lights outside are turning off and Chanyeol is blinking too slowly to be alert.

“Do you find it weird?” he asks, and had Jongin blinked, he would’ve missed the panic in the man’s face. Jongin shakes his head, and it goes away as quickly as it came. “I don’t find it weird. I don’t know…it’s just different.”

Jongin squishes his face further into the pillow. It’s so soft, and he tries his best to stay awake for a few more minutes, so that his last sleepy words will be with Chanyeol. “It’s barely evening and I’m already going to bed.” He shows off a dopey face. “Sometimes, I don’t even sleep until two in the morning. I should’ve been stretching or practicing.”

“I kept you, didn’t I?” Chanyeol asks, and he pulling the covers over him. Suddenly the guest room doesn’t feel so alien, and it’s like Jongin’s meant to be here, right beside Chanyeol in the earliest hours of night. “You were planning to practice, huh?”

“I practice everyday,” says Jongin. “It’s nice to go out and have fun.”

For a while, they don’t speak. At least, not out loud. The phone doesn’t vibrate because it’s on sleep mode, and Chanyeol is too busy staring at nothing to say much. And Jongin—he’s counting the stars outside, even if the shades are down and there’s not enough stars for him to count in the city. Chanyeol’s hand is close to his, and a tingle, a _spark_ in him urges him to grab it and hold it tightly. But he knows that they’ve been pushing the limit; that there’s a time that they need to put a name to these sort of things.

Because, friends don’t holds hands and admire the way their fingers rest on calloused knuckles. A twenty-nine-year-old and a twenty-year-old don’t usually rest their heads on each other’s shoulders, and wonder if the alcohol can take the blame for the desperate want of asking bad questions to one another. Friends don’t ask themselves if it’s okay to lose their hand in another man’s hair, because it’s all so knotty and natural when it’s not combed back for professional reasons.

Jongin doesn’t have a name for those sort of things.

When he shuts his eyes, he thinks he hears Chanyeol talking to him, but he’s not so sure.

♕♕♕

He wakes up to a pair of long lashes coated in mascara.

“ _What_ —!” Jongin yelps and rips the covers away from himself.

Yoora jumps back, face just as surprised. “Oh, okay! So you’re not dead.” She beams, twirling around in an apron that looks handmade. Her hair is pulled back in a short ponytail, and her face is lit by the light coming through the window. “You slept so peacefully so I couldn’t tell?”

Jongin rubs at his eyes, and Yoora scolds him for it. “Is it morning already?”

She shrugs. “Eh, it’s 6-ish. It’s not morning for me until like 2 in the afternoon, but whatever!” she spins around on her slippers. “You should get up, before Chanyeol burns the kitchen downstairs!” she squeals and grabs Jongin by the elbow and pulls him downstairs. He makes a surprised noise as he stumbles downstairs, gripping onto the railing so that he doesn’t trip over his own feet on the stairs. “Chanyeol told me you stayed the night? What were you doing? Did you finally take my little brother to a bar in Hongdae? Was it fun? Was it really fun?”

It’s much too early for the bombardment of questions, even from the notorious Park Yoora.

“We went to the _Locker Room,_ ” Jongin says faintly. “Not in Hongdae, in Yeonhui.”

“Damn, boring.” She fakes a pout before opening the door to the kitchen. Chanyeol whips around with a big spoon in his hand, and a plate piled with who knows what. “Hey, little bro! I woke your sleeping prince up.” She ushers him closer to the dining table, which is a small, cute round table with a rose vase in the middle. There’s a bottle of Advil and a tall glass of water with Jongin’s name on it.

Chanyeol frowns, and he looks fresh, fresher than yesterday. Stripped of his casual clothes and back in his cardigans and button downs, he adjusts his glasses. Jongin feels all warm inside though, because his smile hasn’t changed. “You shouldn’t have woken him up noona. He needs the rest.”

“I rested well enough,” Jongin says. “I slept too much.”

“You needed it anyways.”

Yoora pushes her brother aside and takes the plate out of his hand. “Oh you, go sit down with Jonginnie. You’ll burn our goddamn kitchen down if you swing that spoon around! It’s wooden, too!” she kicks at his shin, sending the wincing man stumbling into a chair.

Jongin suppresses a giggle. “Thank you for making me breakfast, but I should really go home. I need to get my things before dance and say hello to Lu and Sehun-ah.” Yoora’s ears perks up at Sehun’s name.

“Ohh, Sehun, my little sweetheart?” Yoora gushes, and Chanyeol blanches. “He called me. Like seven times, asking me about you. He sounded really panicky, but I wouldn’t let him come over because it was the dead middle of the night when he called. Say, you didn’t tell him you were staying the night, did you?”

Jongin looks down at his water, ashamed. “Jongin…” Chanyeol starts, sounding disappointed. “You told me you told them.”

“I…sorry.”

Yoora shrugs, shutting off the stove. “Jongin is a big boy. He doesn’t need Luhan or Sehunnie’s permission to do things. Isn’t that right Jongin?” she reaches over and pinches his cheeks, her manicured nails nearly scratches him in the process. “How about this, you eat up and then my lil’ bro will walk you over to pick up your things? And explain some things to calm down that boy.”

“I can walk by myself,” Jongin assures her. He avoids Chanyeol’s eye contact. “And I’m not really that hungry, noona.”

“Jongin,” Chanyeol says, his voice serious. “Weight plan. You _promised_ me.” Yoora sets a bowl of rice in front of him and metallic chopsticks, accompanied with small side dishes.

_Promised._

“Christ,” she mutters. “Why are you so protective over Jongin?” she asks, giving her brother a teasing punch to the arm. Except Chanyeol doesn’t react, and keeps his eyes steadied on Jongin. _You promised,_ his eyes reads, and Jongin gulps, looking down at the food.

Swallowing down his voices, he brings the chopsticks to his mouth with a clump of rice, and Chanyeol’s face relaxes visibly. _Eat quickly for Chanyeol,_ he tells himself, chewing on the food slowly with a smile on his face, even if his ribs aches. _Eat for Chanyeol._

After an empty glass and a bowl nearly emptied, he stands up and gives a polite boy. “Thank you for letting me stay the night,” he says, his eyes still trained on the floor. “And for making me a meal, I should leave now. Thank you, noona. And thank you, hyung.” When he looks up, he sees that Chanyeol is standing up as well.

“Like Yoora said, I’ll walk you home.” Jongin opens his mouth to say something, but Chanyeol shakes his head as if to tell him not to fight him on this. “Let me grab my things, first. Noona, can you wash the dishes?”

She sticks out her tongue at him. “I always wash the dishes you scrub.”

Jongin can’t help but feel lighter when he’s in the same room as the two siblings, before slipping away to put on his shoes. He feels a lot more childish standing next to Chanyeol, who is fixing his cuffs. “Sorry for the wait,” he says gently, before placing a hand on Jongin’s back. He shivers, but it’s not the bad kind. “Do you have a hangover?”

“No, not really.”

It’s cloudy outside, but it’s light enough that they’re walking without their phone flashlight guiding them. They’re walking in sync, with their steps matching each other, despite Jongin’s sneakers and his dress shoes.

“Do you usually draw all over your shoes?” Chanyeol asks, eyes lighting up, pointing at the sharpie infested shoes. “Artistic. Abstract.”

Jongin falters in his steps to look down. “When Sehun and I wait at the subway, sometimes we draw on our shoes. Like flowers or smiley faces. Sehun draws inappropriate things sometimes though. Like a…penis.” Chanyeol is trying hard not to laugh. “We always keep a permanent marker in our duffel bags. But recently, we’ve run out of space on our shoes.”

“That’s cute, Jongin-ah. It’s really adorable.”

They’re nearing the red house, with some of the paint already dull and chipping at the ends. Jongin holds his breath, and Chanyeol takes note of that. “You can leave now, hyung. Thanks for walking me home.” Jongin waves to him brightly. Chanyeol looks a little dubious.

“I can wait, if you want.”

“It’s alright!” Jongin beams. “I think I should stop running away from things. Especially from Sehun.” _From Luhan._

“But…”

“You should get ready for work, I’ll see you then.” Jongin sends him off with a smile that curls just right at the corners of his lips, and showcases enough teeth to look genuine, even if it’s not. Chanyeol frowns, his lips dipping down but he waves goodbye, and his steps back to his home are slower than before.

Jongin takes a deep breath, before twisting the knob open.

He’s reminded of how dark Luhan likes to keep the place, with the messy cigarette table and their shoes scattered all over the front. Jongin can’t help but sigh, switching on the light so he can make his way up stairs without tripping. He wonders if Sehun is in their room, or the bathroom. The kitchen is empty when he peers in, and the dining table doesn’t look like it has been sat in for dinner.

“Hyung?” Jongin calls out, his voice low. He raps his knuckles on their bedroom door before slipping in. He hears _Handel_ ’s pieces playing softly from a music player. His bed is made, with his teddy bear sitting right in the middle of his pillow. When he looks up, he sees a blur of a boy jumping down from the top bunk.

Before he realizes it, lanky arms surround his waist, followed by a choked voice. “Oh my God—Jongin,” Sehun breathes out, relieved. “You’re…you didn’t call, and I thought you were pissed off at me and I didn’t know Chanyeol’s number so I called Yoora and I’m so,” he stops to catch his breath. Jongin slowly wraps his arms around Sehun’s torso, taking in his best friend. “I missed you all day.”

 _I’ve been missing you for a while,_ Jongin thinks, only half bitter. _Where were you when I cried?_

“I was just confused,” Jongin says quietly. His emotions are a maelstrom of conflict, tunneling against his rib cage. “I thought you’d be out with your friends, you know. Drinking and smoking.”

Sehun recoils, but he doesn’t let go of him. “Stop thinking like that,” he says, and his voice is edged. “Why do you always say that? Why would I go out when you’re upset with me—”

“Why did you meet with Joonmyun?” Jongin asks, his voice trembling. He pulls away from Sehun, but he doesn’t necessarily push him. Just wraps his hands around his arms and peels him off of him, so that they’re facing enough with red-rimmed eyes. They’ll blame either the sleep or the tears, but either one works.

Sehun sighs, sounding defeated. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what was it?” Jongin asks, anxiously. “That role, it-it’s important to me. Please, to God, if you out of all people take my role I don’t,” his breath hitches. “I don’t know what I’d do.”

Sehun grabs his wrists, and pushes him so that he’ll sit down. He seems more calm now, but not quite collected. “Jongin, no it’s not like that! I’m not taking your role. I’m your understudy, Jongin, I’m your understudy. I’m not out to get you because fuck, you come first before ballet to me. I’m not out to get you.”

In this house, the only way to get the message across is to repeat it over and over.

Sehun lets go of him, and his eyes have stabled. “You kept me up all night,” he says, trying to laugh. “Luhan was pissy all night that you didn’t come home. It’s just, it’s startling when that happens.”

“But it only happened once.”

“Exactly.”

Jongin falls back, collapsing onto his bed. He grabs his teddy bear by the leg and pulls it close to his chest, taking in the familiar scent of cologne. “I had fun with Chanyeol though,” he admits. “I don’t know what your guy’s deal is with him. But he’s good to me.”

_So don’t hurt him._

Sehun doesn’t say anything to that. He notices that he’s in the same clothes as yesterday, except the shirt is now wrinkled and his neat hair is all sticking out and making him look like a hoodlum. Sehun nudges Jongin to move aside, so that he can fall back on the bed next to him. The two of them pretend that it’s night and that they’re looking at stars, when really they’re staring at the ceiling of the bunk bed, with graffiti and scribbles to substitute.

“Where’s Lu?” Jongin asks, stroking his teddy bear’s ear. It’s losing its fuzz, but he doesn’t mind. “I really miss him.”

Sehun’s eyes trails towards the shut bedroom door. “Bathroom,” he says plainly. “The hallway one.”

“Oh.”

Sehun nods, glancing over at him with sympathetic eyes. “He’ll be fine, Jongin.” He squeezes the top of Jongin’s teddy as if to be playful.

“Is he okay?” Jongin asks nervously. “Did something happen?”

Sehun rests the back of his head on his intertwined fingers. He had unbuttoned some of the top collar so that his collarbone is on full display; sharp and protruding dangerously. “I’m not sure. You know him, he doesn’t talk to me about anything.”

“Did you ask?”

“I…no.”

Jongin sighs, and this comes out heavier than the rest. He reaches up to touch the wooden board above his bed. He traces his fingers over Sehun’s signatures, all those differing from one another every year. There’s a stick-figure picture, thanks to sixteen-year-old Jongin, with an arrow pointing to him, labeled ‘ME’.

He hasn’t gotten around to drawing a face on that stick-figure.

“Do you think I should go check up on him?” Jongin asks carefully, his words rolling off his tongue slowly and deliberately. He rises up, mindful of the height. Sehun grabs him quickly by the arm, his eyes guarded.

Sehun shakes his head, trying to pull Jongin back down on the bed. “You know you shouldn’t,” he says, his voice knotty. “House rules, privacy in the hallway bathroom.”

Luhan made up that rule when he took Jongin and Sehun in, because it benefited him the most. And it still does. Luhan describes it somewhere along the lines of the bathroom being big enough for only a man’s secret and the man himself, or something like that.

Jongin shakes him off, and his frown is just as deep as Chanyeol’s earlier in the morning. “Well, they’re _bad_ house rules.” Sehun scrambles to his feet to try to bargain with Jongin.

“Hey, Jonginnie, wait—”

Jongin stops to turn around, his eyes wide and his lip quivering. “House rules. No touching Lu’s cabinet, hallway bathroom privacy, no kissing ‘hook-ups’ at home, no smoking in the kitchen, no ballet practice in the bedroom, no sitting on the furnace.” Jongin, frustrated, covers his face with shaky hands. Maybe it’s the stress, because Sehun looks paranoid, as if preparing himself for the next _Todd attack._ “There’s so many house rules. And most of them are awful.”

“Shhh,” Sehun murmurs, rubbing soothing circles around his wrist. “Give Luhan some time. You…you know how he is. House rules, you know how he loves this house a lot. Look, even if he’s not all this, you need to know that he’s not normal. So your morals don’t apply to him, give him privacy.”

The heater in the room starts to act up again, but it’s okay because it’s warmer outside. Jongin nods, and lets Sehun cup his face with his bony hands. Jongin quickly takes a look over at Luhan’s bed, where his pointe shoes are hanging off at the front of his bed, and a shot glass is buried under a pile of outdated magazines. It’s unmade, because no one dares to touch his bed unless he lets them.

“You haven’t done your stretches?” Sehun asks, trying to change the subject.

“I haven’t Sehunnie.”

Sehun grins, all toothy. He ruffles up Jongin’s hair, but unlike Chanyeol, his fingers don’t lose themselves in between his tangles, resting on the surface instead. “Let’s go do our stretches before company hours.”

Jongin nods, feeling at home again. When they tip toe past the bathroom, Jongin halts. “Wait,” he murmurs, and Sehun looks as if he had internally groaned.

“Jongin, house rules.”

Jongin dismisses him and holds his ear close to the door. Most of the doors in the house are thin and fragile, and any ear can hear a few rooms down. _I’m worried, I’m worried I’m worrIED oh hYUNG Lu,_ his thoughts shriek at him, and Jongin holds his breath as he listens.

Nothing.

“Are you sure he’s in there?” Jongin mouths towards Sehun, who just shrugs, looking exasperated. Impatiently, Sehun intertwines his hand with Jongin and the two of them hurry downstairs to the living room. The television is still on, and Jongin is almost sure it had been Sehun who didn’t shut it off.

“Have you eaten?” Sehun asks warily, looking up and down at Jongin. “You didn’t come home for dinner,” he starts up again. “You didn’t come home at all, actually.”

This time, Jongin doesn’t apologize.

He rolls up his sleeves, propping himself up against the couch so he can stretch out the muscles in his legs. “Chanyeol took care of me,” he says calmly, feeling too tired to talk about yesterday. Because yesterday was like a dream to him, drinking out in bars where he doesn’t have to pretend to act the age he’s _made_ to be, or keep his eyes on other people’s feet because eye contact scares him sometimes.

It was a dream, and he wonders if he’ll ever get to dream again.

“You ate well, at least?” Sehun asks, and Jongin feels his eyes on him. “That’s good. As long as you’re well.”

They push aside the coffee table for more room. With the table pressed up against the wall, Sehun scoots aside so that there’s room for them both. Hamstring stretches, with their feet in front of them and toes wiggling. “Fifth position,” Sehun murmurs unconsciously, a practiced habit of his that has him muttering out his steps before acting it out.

“First position,” Jongin teases him, glancing over at him, twisting his torso in order to maintain comfort. Sometimes on his more risky days, he’ll go for longer stretches—for the perfect arabesque—even if it leaves his face contorted and sweat crowning his head. On those days, he’ll feel all the knots unravel from his core to his chest, and a feeling of ease surges through him. ‘ _Like LSD,’_ Luhan would say between his teeth.

They don’t hold conversation really, except for exchanged grunts when they switch into plies or splits. Their hips knock into the couch a few times, but it doesn’t hurt. “Mindful of your ankle,” Sehun reminds him. “It’s looking worse lately.”

“I know,” Jongin says, looking down at his ankles. They’re not swollen, but red lines his skin and is left for all viewers to see. “I’ll go ask Jongdae-ssi about it later—,”

They hear a loud thump from the staircase. Heads swiveling towards the sound, they’re greeted with the small bodied man who has been dubbed their guardian for years. Black hair messy and looks purposely teased, Luhan eyes the two of them with solemn eyes. Jongin swallows thick saliva, keeping his eyes trained on him.

 _He’s so beautiful,_ Jongin thinks, _that’s why he’s the best._ And he is, with his sharp cheekbones looking hollow enough to be like a pixie, his eyes wide enough to be mistaken for crying or surprised ones. But they both know he’s not, because Luhan doesn’t cry so much. Luhan blinks at Jongin, his eyes flickering. Before he can say anything, Luhan takes measured steps down the steps.

“Hyung,” Jongin scrambles to his feet and regrets it momentarily, the ache from holding his stretch for too long poking at his skin. Luhan stands at the bottom of the stairs, wiping away something at his mouth before bringing his eyes up to Jongin’s face. “Are you alright?” he asks under his breath, even if Sehun doesn’t particularly care.

“Look who decided to come home,” Luhan replies flatly, arching a brow. He tilts his head before pulling up his sleeve that hangs too loosely on one shoulder. “Welcome _home,_ dear.”

Jongin bites down hard, and he wonders if blood will draw from his mouth. Though white-knuckled, he grabs Luhan’s clammy, smaller hands in his. Unlike Chanyeol’s, whose hands armor his entirely, Luhan’s small and spider-legged hands are completely enveloped by Jongin’s hands. Sehun had stood up sometime in between, with a hardened gaze.

“Let it go, Lu.”

Luhan jerks on Jongin’s hands, forcing him to stumble along with him. “Come talk to me?” he asks, though it’s not a choice. Voice sickly sweet, Jongin’s eyes flutter shut for a minute or two. “Oh, baby, come on. You left your darling back here with nothing but a _prince,_ ” his eyes slide over to Sehun who fumes, “and alcohol. It was boring.”

“Hyung—”

The mask dissolves, and Luhan thrusts his irritation out on full display. “Don’t you call Chanyeol hyung?” he asks, lips curling in. They’re chapped, and Jongin longs to run his fingers across it to tell him he’s sorry. “Don’t call me hyung then.”

Sehun shuts his eyes, his pupils twitching underneath the thin skin. “Stop being a fucking child for once, _hyung._ You’re scaring Jongin.”

 _Yes,_ Jongin thinks. This living room isn’t the same as the other houses on the street. There’s no family portraits or diplomas hanging off the walls. Other living rooms don’t have cracks in the wall because Luhan hates repairmen, and they certainly don’t have the same nail marks in the couch because Sehun has had too much fun with his past lovers.

It’s not like Chanyeol’s living room, where he felt secured enough to hold hands under soft blankets that don’t scratch him at night.

It’s not the same at all.

A chapel-like smile appears on his face, the kind that convinced Zitao that Jongin wasn’t scared of the stained glass windows when they were eleven. “Okay, Lu,” he says, and each word, even if it’s only two, is sticky and choppy. Luhan keeps his eyes alert, as if Jongin could rip himself out of his grasp and run. Run away and not come back. “I’ll call you, Lu.”

Luhan’s expression doesn’t give anything away. “Family meeting,” Luhan mutters, and nudges Sehun aside. “Of us two, only.”

Luhan looks different. Sure, it has only been a day since he’s last seen him, but there’s something off-putting about him today. Thinner than usual, yes, and it’s even more pronounced with the shirt that keeps slipping off his shoulders. An angel’s face that is usually marked with agitation or violence, is now noted with exhaustion.

 _What have you done?_ Jongin doesn’t voice it out loud, but his eyes waver, never leaving Luhan. _What have you done?_

Sehun reaches over to grab a fistful of Luhan’s shirt, but the man moves aside. His eyes are tired, and his hands are thinned with veins and alabaster skin. “Oh, fuck off, sugarpie,” Luhan snaps, sounding more dejected than he is pissed off. “Aren’t you going to chat with me? Jonginnie?”

Jongin inhales sharply, before turning to Sehun with a cheeky face. “Don’t worry! I’ll just talk to Lu,” he says, tangling his hand further with his. It’s not the first time it has happened. When they were fifteen and Jongin broke a vase that Luhan had on their kitchen counter, the guardian had grabbed his small and balled up hand and said under his breath about a family meeting. Luhan had locked himself along with Jongin in the bedroom, with Sehun throwing himself against the door.

“ _Don’t touch him, I’ll call the police! It’s my fault, I broke the vase!”_ Sehun had screamed at the wooden door that didn’t fall down. Luhan had laughed, all breathy and desperate. All they did that night was fix the vase together, gluing each broken ceramic piece back onto the vase. Jongin remembers leaving the bedroom with Luhan, the two of them with their hands cut and bleeding, and Sehun ripping out at Luhan.

“ _He didn’t do anything,”_ Jongin had told him, ripping his best friend off of the stoic adult, who was too busy wiping his paper cuts off with his shirt to really care.

However, this time, they’re not fifteen, and whatever Jongin broke can’t be fixed with glue.

Luhan shoots a victorious grin towards Sehun, before leading Jongin upstairs. “Oh,” Luhan sighs out dreamily, “how I _love_ family meetings.” Expecting to go to the bedroom, he’s startled by Luhan’s quick turns of feet, pulling them into the bathroom in the hallway. Jongin opens his mouth to protest, but Luhan turns around with dull eyes. “Do me a sweet favor and shush.”

“But you said we can’t go in here—”

“Correction,” Luhan interrupts, unlocking the door with a key he pulled out of his pocket. “ _You_ can’t go in here. Think of it like hell, Jongin.”

Jongin nearly bites down on his tongue when he stumbles into the bathroom, his bottom hitting the toilet seat as a makeshift chair. It smells _awful_ in here, and Luhan scowls, flipping on the switch before spraying the tightly packed room with a can of air freshener. “My bad,” he says with a perk that seems too fake, “last night’s mistakes were a _mess._ ” He opens one of the drawer and tosses a mint into his mouth.

Jongin keeps his silence. A part of him wants to speak up and ask why he’s in here, when the house rules say it’s only big enough for a man and his secrets. But he can’t help but laugh, because the bigger part of him already knows the answer.

“Which one of us is the secret?” he asks under his breath.

“What was that?”

Jongin shakes his head. “Nothing, hyung.” He sees Luhan’s expression drop at that. A sorry sits on his lips, and he’s not sure when he should say it, or if he should say it at all. “Am I in trouble?”

Luhan shrugs, leaning back against the wall. Amused, he looks up and down at Jongin, teeth showing through his smile. “I’m just curious,” he says, and it sounds honest enough. “Won’t you give me your phone?”

Jongin stiffens. “My phone?”

Luhan arches his brows. “I’m glad you can hear. Is your _brain illness_ acting up again?”

Now that’s a low blow.

“No,” Jongin whispers unintentionally. “No it’s not.”

Luhan crouches down in front of him, bare knees brushing up against his legs. Jongin turns his head away when Luhan’s minty breath is too close to his face. “That’s good, then.” Luhan tilts his face, and from the corner of his eye, Jongin can see the amount of energy the elder is putting forth to keep whatever stance he has going. “I’d like to see your phone.”

Jongin’s hand goes to his pocket. “There’s nothing on it. Why would you need it?”

“Well, sweetie, if there’s nothing on it then I can look at it, right?” he asks, though it’s rhetorical. Without much warning, he reaches for his pocket, his hands dangerously close to his inner thigh. Jongin bites down a whimper, and replaces it with a swollen lip from too much biting. Luhan finds glee in this, and pulls the phone out.

“Sehun, Sehun, Sehun, Sehun, oh, there it is.” Luhan squints. “ _Chanyeol.”_

“What’s wrong with him?”

“What?”

Jongin clears his throat. “What’s wrong with hyung? You keep mentioning him—you mentioned him yesterday, too. What’s wrong with him?” he presses. Before Luhan can get a word out, he continues. “Chanyeol is kind. He took care of me all day and holds my hand and says only good things to me.”

Luhan’s eye twitches, and his knuckles pales when his grip on Jongin’s phone tightens. Jongin isn’t so concerned whether or not his phone breaks, but how far Luhan can go before _he_ breaks, now that’s a different story.

“He’s lying to you.”

“No he’s not, hyung!”

Luhan jerks up, his face turning red. It’s not out of flattery or embarrassment, either. “There’s no fuckin’ good people in this world,” he spats, and it’s loud enough that he’s sure that Sehun can hear from downstairs. “He’s just lying to you. And I don’t like that.” Jongin furrows his brows together, trying to make sense of everything.

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me,” he says. “He’s _good_ to you? No one can be good to you, only I can.” Luhan reaches over to hold his chin, as if out adoration. And maybe in another time, a better time, it would be like that. It just feels _revolting_ now.

“That’s not true,” Jongin says lowly. “Sehun is good to me. Yoora is good to me, Chanyeol is good to me.”

Luhan narrows his eyes into slits, ripping his grasp away so quickly that Jongin jumps. “There’s no good people in this world,” he repeats, this time it sounds sharper. “I’m doing this because I love you Jongin, can’t you see?”

_No, no I can’t, I can’t, no, I can’t._

“I know you love me.”

Luhan’s features softens, but it’s only by a little bit. “Then listen to me. This guy? He just shows up out of nowhere and calls you his friend? Bullshit! I know secrets that you don’t and it’s because I love you.”

Jongin’s eyes travels to the door. He wants to leave, he wants Sehun to rip the door open and take him out. Except it’s locked, and he told Sehun with a smile that he’s fine. Instead, he buries his face into his hands, letting his own flesh comfort him. “Why do you have do this?” he asks, his voice cracking. “Every time, you do this and it just, I’m so…why do you have do this?”

Luhan rolls up his sleeves, and his red elbows are exposed. “Because I love you.”

_Are you really talking to me?_

“Because you’re mine,” he continues, eyes wide and perplexed. His hands are stuffed into his pocket now, looking anywhere but at Jongin. “Chanyeol is trying to take you away and I don’t fucking like that. I don’t at all. I hate, I hate, I hate, I hate hate hate—”

As if programmed to do so, Jongin gets onto his knees so that he’s on the floor alongside with Luhan, and pulls the smaller, but older man, into his arms. This is a secret as well, this sort of thing. It’s always amusing, the way Luhan can kiss so many strangers and smoke a stick while tying up his pointe shoes. Because at the end of the day, he’ll wake Jongin up with a whisper, so that the younger boy can hold him as he sleeps at night.

It’s like this, too.

“I’m here,” Jongin murmurs into Luhan’s hair. Unlike Chanyeol, who when Jongin hugs is scented with lavender and spices, Luhan smells just like their little red house, smoky and of cheap cologne. “I’m still here, and so is Sehun. We’re family, right? We’ve been family, and I don’t leave family.”

When Luhan finally sinks into his touch with a sigh, Jongin is greeted with sharp bones that dig into his sides when Luhan wraps his arm around him. “My big baby,” Luhan says lightly, like he’s in a dream or had too much to smoke. “My little blue boy.”

_Mine?_

Jongin nods, stirring Luhan’s hair with his breath. Luhan tugs on the hem of his shirt, until his thin fingers trail up his skin, leaving goosebumps and nerves as he goes. Palming Jongin’s lower back, the tension in Luhan’s shoulders lessens, and it’s shown when they slumped up against Jongin’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” Jongin croaks, shutting his eyes. It’s scary, because when it all goes black, he can almost pretend they’re in the faint-lighted bar with secrets spilling out of his mouth as conversation starters. He can _almost_ fool himself into thinking that Chanyeol’s laughter is sounded through the air, instead of Luhan’s uneasy breathing against his neck.

“He’s taking you away from me,” Luhan murmurs, except he sounds too worn out to really add more to it. “I know bad things you don’t. He’s taking you away from me.” He lifts his head up, the hammock of darkened and purpled flesh under his eyes stand out the most, taking away from fantasy-like eyes that flickers up and down from Jongin’s eyes to his lips.

“And what are these bad things?” Jongin asks, though he really doesn’t want to know. This image of a man whose height has him towering over Jongin, with the high slope of his nose that crinkles up when he laughs, his eyes squeezing shut as well. Jongin likes that too much, with the change in attire of button downs to old college tee shirts that he doesn’t want to disappear.

Luhan doesn’t say anything, but the breath against his chest is woven with soft Chinese. “您将恨我,” he says faintly, and Jongin doesn’t want to decode the uncharted words that sounds like he’s whistling.

So he doesn’t, instead, he tells himself that they’re sweet words, and that Luhan is a sweet man.

(거짓말쟁이)

 

♕♕♕

Jongin has his bag of prescriptions in his hands. Sehun had watched him take them earlier with heavy eyes, making sure that every pill, every God damn capsule melted in his mouth. Sehun also dressed him, in a neat shirt that covers all his cuts and bruises, and jeans that didn’t itch so much.

“I did the laundry last night,” Sehun tells him. “You mentioned you liked the smell of lavender recently.” Jongin brings his sleeve to his nose, smelling it. It’s not real lavender, he knows by the artificial feeling it leaves in his nose afterward. But he smiles anyways, because Sehun tried his best.

Luhan is sitting on another bench, his lips tinted by the gum in his mouth. His hair isn’t as messy, and no one can even tell that there’s a skeleton under his sweatshirt. He still has Jongin’s phone, tucked somewhere in his bag. No one can tell either that he had been broken in the bathroom, not with those knowing eyes and pale expression.

“So,” Sehun starts, fixing up Jongin’s sleeves by folding them up, exposing his wrists. “This week is going to be grueling. Endure it well, okay, Jongin?” he says, shooting one of his signature smiles. “The ballet is coming up soon.”

“I know,” says Jongin. “I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be.”

Jongin can say that he’ll try not to, but that’s another lie he’ll have on his shoulders.

People start to show up at the station, their briefcases in one hand and phone in the other. Jongin recognizes some of them, like Mr. Lee, who recently sold his ramyun shop in order to pay for his daughter’s tuition in the States. He thinks Mr. Lee is working at a factory now, with his face that looks like no amount of soap can rid him of the soot. Or the girl who turned nineteen last week; convinced that Luhan is infatuated with her.

At the top of the stairs though, Jongin sees Chanyeol in his black rimmed glasses that screams professionalism, when really it leaves red marks on the bridge of his nose and he complains about it. His face is clean and bright, and Jongin’s chest swells at the sight of him.

He parts his lips to call his name out, but Sehun grabs a hold of him, shaking his head. “Lu is fucking steaming,” he mutters. “If you really like that Chanyeol so much, don’t let Luhan notice him.”

“Don’t you like him?” Jongin asks, frowning. “You were so nice to Chanyeol when you met him.”

“Because you seemed to like him,” Sehun says, as if it’s the most obvious thing ever. “Even after what I heard, I know you have good judgment—”

“What is it?” Jongin asks, exasperated. “You’re all being so coy about it, and I’m so sick of it, Sehunnie. What _did you hear?_ Why does everyone keep mentioning it, it’s making me feel so,” he bunches up a fistful of his shirt, “I’m just confused.”

Sehun shifts in his seat. “It’s…it’s nothing.”

Jongin feels a tap on his shoulder. When he looks up, the first thing he sees is Chanyeol’s smile. “Hey you,” he greets him, hand reaching up to pinch his cheek. It’s almost as if he forgot Sehun was there, because Chanyeol looks over and reddens. “Good morning, Sehun.”

Sehun nods. “To you too, hyung.”

“Chanyeol,” Jongin looks up with relief. “Good morning.”

“It is,” he replies. “I sent you something over text, but I wasn’t sure if you got it?”

Jongin looks down, uncomfortable. “Oh. I don’t have my phone, it’s uh,” he looks over at Luhan, who is occupied with his earphones. “Lu has it.”

Chanyeol tilts his head. “Why?”

Sehun grimaces. “It’s complicated.”

The metro halts in front of them, and everyone is bustling to go in. Chanyeol reaches over to grab Jongin’s bag. “Here,” he starts off softly, “I’ll get that for you.” Jongin beams, reaching up to wrap his arm around his like yesterday. Chanyeol stiffens by a margin, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Don’t touch his bag,” a light but gruff voice pushes them aside. Luhan is standing hunched over with his duffel hanging off his shoulders. His earbuds are hanging off his shoulders, and his eyes are narrowed into slits. “You hold what’s yours.”

Chanyeol’s face morphs into an emotionless one. “I don’t think I really introduced myself well to you,” he says calmly, still holding Jongin’s bag off his shoulder. Sehun is tugging on Jongin’s shirt frantically, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. “I’m Park Chanyeol—”

“Yeah, I know. We all know.” Luhan, in two quick strides, walks over and plucks the bag off Chanyeol’s shoulder, throwing it back into Jongin’s arms. “You know who else knows? The Busan sweethearts.”

Jongin hasn’t seen Chanyeol so psyched out before. “Lu,” Jongin starts off, his voice dripping with a plea. People shoulder past the four of them, with Sehun the most aware of them all. He shoots apologetic smiles to the people who grunt as they push them aside. “We should go.” Jongin voices the concern on Sehun’s face, tugging on Luhan’s elbow. Chanyeol notices, and something jumps across his face—is it hurt, bemusement, or curiosity, he doesn’t know.

Luhan lets him pull him away, Chanyeol lingering around with a thin line of iron playing for lips. Jongin looks back with I’m sorry in his eyes. He desperately wants to let go of Luhan and stand by Chanyeol’s side, whose arms are comforting when they’re around him, and how he reminds him of lavender and oh, it soothes Jongin so much.

But he doesn’t let go, because he doesn’t have a choice.

“Busan boys and girls always talk,” Luhan continues, even if Chanyeol isn’t around to hear it. Sehun pinches him to hush, but he doesn’t listen. “Especially if,” Luhan holds eye contact with Jongin until he rips away, settling for the tall man who still looks too pale to be in good emotions. “It involves a scandal. Oh, the Busan girls absolutely love that.”

“Shut up hyung,” Sehun sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes. They’ll be a little red, and he’ll complain about the stinging later. “Jongin’s tired of this. I’m tired of this. We’re all tired of this.”

Luhan’s grin is terrible. He turns to look over at Sehun with wide, bright eyes. “Tired of what?” he asks, his lashes fluttering too fast. “I’m not tired at all.”

♕♕♕

Jongin hugs himself tightly.

His eyes skitters across the cluttered group of corps members, the girls in their romantic tutus and the men in dance belts and tights. He reaches those distinct eyes of Minseok, and they crinkle up at the ends when he smiles. He shoots a thumb’s up towards Jongin’s way, with Soojung laughing and waving her hands around animatedly. Sehun is beside him too, his face full of laughter and mouthing some good luck phrases to Jongin, even if he can’t make it out.

He starts to smile back, but he falters within seconds.

_They’re Sehun’s friends, not mine._

Yixing glances over at him, his hair all muzzled and lips cracked. They look like they hurt, with him licking his bottom lip to soothe it out. “You alright, kid?” he asks gently, but his eyes don’t seem to mean it. Jongin nods too quickly, and the man doesn’t buy it. “Well, don’t be so frantic. The corps are finally performing with us, don’t want to mess up.”

“Why?”

“This could be your debut to a higher rank.” Yixing shrugs, picking at his lip now. He settles for ripping off the dry skin, and Jongin looks away quickly when he draws blood. “Wouldn’t that be so amazing, Jongin? Joining the likes of us?”

Jongin nods, because that’s what he’s supposed to do.

“Well, don’t be too disappointed,” Yixing says breezily, eyes rolling around like he’s dizzy, rapidly blinking. “Because the heavens up here aren’t what you corps think it is.”

They’re performing this scene, and it’s all Jongin today. Myrtha is to be introduced, with the corps pooling around him. Jongin swallows thick saliva, thinking about it. He has always been with the body of the ballet, sweaty skin chaffing up against others. It’s all for the sake of the main dancer in the center, and it’s all worth it too in the end.

But this time, it’s going to be for him.

Shaking, he clamps down on the front of his shirt, and Seulgi notices. “What’s wrong with him?” she asks Yixing, obviously intending for Jongin to hear, too. He freezes, keeping his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see her disapproving gaze.

“Nothing,” Yixing says, and Jongin can most definitely hear the smile in his voice. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

_Don’t stress, don’t stress, don’t stress._

Luhan is in the bathroom, and has been for the past twenty minutes. He slowly brings head up, looking at the group of corps and for once, he begs God to let him be one of them. It’ll be so much easier, he thinks, to sit next to Sehun and laugh along with him, even if it’s all a cluster over there and not too comfortable.

But at least it’s not so cold over there.

Joonmyun walks over with a pen behind his ear, and Sojin hurrying to catch up with him. “Showtime is so soon,” he starts off, catching all three of their attention. “I can feel it on my fingers. See? They’re tingling.” He wiggles them around, teeth on full exhibition. It’s not as charming as Chanyeol, who smiles with the intention to make honey ooze out of Jongin. Joonmyun’s intent is to make them agree with him, no matter how crazy.

Sojin shoots Jongin an encouraging smile, but it dies quickly when Joonmyun gives her side-eyes.

“Don’t just stand there, get them all rounded up.” Joonmyun snaps his fingers together for theatrical effects. She nods and hurries over to the group of corps, and Jongin can hear Yixing chuckling under his breath until it blooms into full-blown laughter. “What’s funny, garden boy?”

Yixing doesn’t even flinch at the nickname. “She was the head principal dancer a few years back,” he says, his voice still wonky as he eases down on his giggles. “Are you treating her like an assistant now? Don’t you have one of your office interns for those?”

Seulgi widens his eyes, grabbing Yixing by the arm rather harshly. “Hyung!” she hisses in a half-whisper, half-yell.

“It’s ge.”

“What?”

“It’s ge,” Yixing continues, the smile seems to be permanently sewn onto his face. “I’m not your Korean doll, I’m Chinese.” Jongin looks back and forth at the Director, whose corners of his lips are twitching as he tries his best to maintain his smile.

“Everything has an expiration date,” Joonmyun says bluntly, and even Seulgi falters at this. “Sojin’s just rolled around quicker than most.” Yixing’s smile thins, but it’s still there. Joonmyun bends down to give him slow and calculated pats on the shoulder.

He skips over to Sojin, who is busy ushering the corp dancers into their place, some of them hurrying into their leg warmers and flats.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Jongin says quietly. “Now Joonmyun is in a bad mood.”

Yixing shrugs, bouncing to his feet as he pulls the kinks and sores out of his shoulders, especially where Joonmyun touched him. “Well, that’s too bad.” His eyes brightens cheerfully when the doors swing open, and the small-bodied Lu strolls in, hands stuffed in the pockets of his shorts. “Ah, Lulu!”

Luhan ignores him. “What are you still doing standing here?” he asks flatly, nodding towards Jongin. “It’s your scene, go over to Joonmyun.”

“R-right!” Jongin splutters, wiggling out of his jacket. “Give me strength, hyung?”

“I’ll give what I want.”

While others may flinch at the brashness, Jongin just grins. “Thank you, Lu. Bye!” he waves at Yixing, and even at Seulgi who responds with withering eyes.

When he rushes over to Joonmyun’s side, the Director looks up. “Did you do your homework the other day?” he asks innocently, as one may as if he had a good morning, or if they slept well.

Jongin hesitates. “I did my best.”

“Is your best what I want?”

He’s not that sure. “Yes,” he says anyways.

This seems to satisfy Joonmyun. “Good, because I have high expectations today.”

Sehun and Soojung are one side of the Wilis, though separated from one another, they mimic the same heartening gestures again, and when Jongin turns his head to the right, he gets the same from Minseok. The pounding in his chest palliates, and he relaxes visibly.

 _Chanyeol,_ he thinks, _it would be nice if you were here, standing in the corner of the room. Smiling and clapping with your goofy smile._

His thoughts don’t have names to them either, but he doesn’t want them to.

“Alright,” Joonmyun claps, just as sloppy as a drunkard might. “My sweet kids, this is one of the audience’s favorite. So please, don’t fuck up.” Everyone nods. “Now prior to today, all of you have practiced alone in the smaller studio and in smaller sections, and the little King here,” he nudges Jongin forward, and all eyes are on him. “Has practiced alone up until now. Work together, will you?”

Everyone nods again.

The pianist gets the safe word, flipping through the music sheets. Sojin and Joonmyun all hurry to the side, settling down on the plastic chairs just a bit away from the main space. Jongin lets his eyes roam across the group of the ballet dancers, most who he never really talked to.

_I’m the star._

He puts on a shaky expression, one that can promise good reactions. “Hello,” he calls out, not too loud but not too soft. “I’m Kim Jongin.”

_They won’t remember my name._

_(Make them.)_

He searches the crowd again, but there’s so many people that he can’t even find Sehun. He keeps his feet positioned as he was taught to, shoulders broad and straight. _If you can’t be confident, look confident,_ his sister once told him. The other dancers all swarm to their spots, some in an opening stance while others are still rolling out their neck and shoulders. Jongin catches Luhan’s and the rest’s gaze on him.

_Don’t let them down._

“Are you ready, King?” Joonmyun calls out, hand resting on the top of the piano. The pianist’s concentrated face is on the sheets, fingers ready to waltz. “Give us the word, and it’s all on you.”

“Yes,” Jongin replies, and this time, his voice is loud enough to ring through the entire studio. “I’m ready.”

The first note plays, so familiar that it’s inked in his skin, every eighth and half note plastered against his chest, and he wonders if this is how Luhan feels. The way the soloist had tapped his foot unconsciously at night, half asleep while humming to the first scene of _Swan Lake,_ even if they haven’t done that ballet in years.

The body of the ballet guides him first, opening the floor for him by moving and swaying in pattern. Letting go of the breath he was holding, Jongin lets go of everything.

_What is a heartbreak, Jongin?_

He takes a front step, his ankles burning only a bit; like a dim candle. A heartbreak, some voice starts off in his head, is a car ride in the city so silent that it hurts. When your heart breaks, you’ll be in a bar drinking even if the liquor burns your throat and leaves your tongue bitter. It’s when you’re counting the number of pills you take in the morning, swallowing them without water before the others see.

A heartbreak, is when you’re afraid of your own occupation. A heartbreak—is when you smoke enough so that your excuse for why you can’t say nice things is because your lungs are sodded with soot. It’s somewhere in between abandoned childhood and living in it for years and years when you’re branded an adult.

The piano notes reminds him it’s time to flatten out the bottom of his feet as he prepares for a _pas de cheval._

_Have you done your homework, Jongin?_

No, not at all, because these are not his heartbreaks.

Jongin makes eye contact with Sehun when he weaves through the crops, who are standing still, some of their legs trembling a bit from holding it out too long. Sehun looks incredulous and proud, and Jongin forces down a smile, because the King of heartbreaks doesn’t smile.

“Yes,” Joonmyun calls out, glee lining every bit of his voice. “Solemn, a funeral face! Pull your arms up higher, and arch your back forward by a hair! Yes, that’s my Jongin, that’s my Jongin.”

Jongin quickly turns his head towards their Director, to see if he means it. The pride and genuine eyes confirms it, and something surges through his body as he hurries out of the corps in short leaps.

Every note, every step, and every thought makes itself a crown of gold fit for a King. And Jongin wears it heavily, even if it’s burdening enough to snap the bones in his neck.

The piano quietly fades off, the pianist wiping away a running sweat drip when he flips the sheet. Jongin keeps his stance for a little bit longer, before his breathing hitches and his knees give way.

The corps and Luhan don’t seem to notice when Jongin falls, and he’s glad. Joonmyun and Sojin walk over to him—Sojin quicker than he is—with a bottle of water in hand. She presses it into his grasp, her eyes seeming proud and sad, the two coexisting.

“How swell,” Joonmyun beams, watching Jongin swallow mouthfuls of water until he’s spluttering at the lips. “I’m awfully proud of you. You _really_ did do your homework.”

“I did,” Jongin says. “I did.” The now emptied water bottle rolls across the floor, and stops at Joonmyun’s feet. He wipes away his sweat before resting his palm on his chest, in hopes to calm himself down. He glances over at Luhan’s direction, hoping or begging that he’s there and looking back at him, with praise on his lips.

He isn’t.

Crestfallen, he tries not to show it, and pretends he doesn’t see Luhan resting his head on Yixing’s shoulders, eyes shut like a sleeping baby.

_It’s okay._

“We’re doing that scene again,” Joonmyun reminds him, scribbling something on his paper. “Twenty minute break, go do what you want. Be quick, kid.” Jongin scrambles to his feet. Sojin is calling his name, something about discussing facial expressions.

“I’ll be quick Sojin-ssi,” he says quickly, pulling off his dance flats so that he’s bare feet. “I just need to do something, I promise to be quick.”

He hurries out the doors. The physio is down the hall and to the left. The corridor is mostly empty, except for the janitor wiping down the walls, whistling to some song as he works. Jongin bids him good afternoon before skipping past him.

Jongin gives a quick knock on the door behind letting himself in, making sure the door doesn’t slam. His smile wavers when he’s greeted by Jongdae and Dr. Lim. Jongdae blinks a few times, before setting down his paperwork.

“Oh, Jongin-ah!” he greets him, and Dr. Lim buries her nose further into a file folder. “Do you need a check up or anything?”

“Hello Jongdae-ssi,” Jongin bows hastily, arms by his side. “No, no, it’s okay. I was just looking for, um, Chanyeol hyung.”

Jongdae looks over his shoulder at Dr. Lim. “He’s outside for fresh air,” she says, not taking her eyes off her readings. “Said he needed some real air, and left. He seemed pretty tired by the way. Are you going to see him for something?”

Jongin nods.

“Why don’t you take some headache relievers for him? He didn’t look too well leaving.” Dr. Lim motions for Jongdae to take the bottle of water and the capsules on the desk. Medicine in hand, Jongin starts to head out the door. “Bye, Jongin-ah. Good luck with your ballet, by the way.”

Jongdae nods eagerly. “Yeah, good luck! Make us white coats proud. Yeah, that’s right, we all know the nicknames you ballet-heads call us.” He chuckles at Jongin’s conflicted face, before holding the door for him.

A series of questions swarm his head, clawing and gnawing at his skull. Is Chanyeol alright? Is he sick? Was it because he drank too much yesterday? Jongin speeds up, his bare feet padding against the carpeted floors as he makes his way to the main rooms.

When he reaches the back doors, he recognizes the tuft of ashy hair sticking up from the wind. Chanyeol is sitting up against the window, back hunched and his hands resting in his lap. Jongin opens the door, and the man jerks up, as if he had been touched.

“Chanyeol,” Jongin starts, clutching the bottle of water close to his chest. “Found you.”

“Oh,” he clears his throat. “Hi, Jongin.” The corners of his mouth curls up, but it looks too faint to be really happy. Jongin makes room for himself in the small space next to him, and Chanyeol presses himself up against the wall as much as he can, leaving as much room in between them.

Jongin sets the bottles of water and painkillers in that space, and Chanyeol stares at them for awhile.

“Dr. Lim and Jongdae-ssi said you left for fresh air. They sent me with these because they thought you weren’t feeling well.” Jongin reaches over to put his hand over Chanyeol’s, and the latter flinches.

He pretends that something in him doesn’t break.

“Thanks,” Chanyeol says with a throaty tone. “I appreciate it. You should really get inside though. You’ll catch a cold and you’ll hurt your feet.” He nods towards his naked feet. “There’s a lot of sharp things on the ground here.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Jongin asks, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry about Lu this morning, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything he said, he’s like that—”

“He meant it,” Chanyeol cuts in, and every word that drips from his mouth is slow and thick. His eyes are dilated, and the crinkle between his brow seems lasting.

Jongin wants to ask why he’s upset, or the secrets that Luhan and Sehun were talking about, and what they mean. But he knows that if he does, Chanyeol might just walk away.

“I apologize on his behalf, and before you say that I’m not allowed to say sorry, I’m saying it for my hyung. So it doesn’t count.” Jongin tries again, and tugs on Chanyeol’s sleeve. This time, he doesn’t move away, and God, Jongin thanks him for that. “Luhan means well, he really does. He’s just not good at showing it. He...he cares for me, because we’re family. And it’s silly, but he thinks you’ll take me away from him because we’ve gotten so close.”

Chanyeol shuts his eyes. “You don’t have to apologize for him, Jongin-ah. I understand.” With his other hand, though tentative, he covers Jongin’s. “Did he...did he say anything to you?”

Jongin tilts his head. “No?”

He breathes out, and the muscles in his jaw works as the lower half of his face tightens. “Please don’t believe what he tells you, if it comes to it. Will you believe me first?”

“I—”

Chanyeol finally looks at him, _really_ looks at him. “Will you, Jongin?”

 _Confusion._ “Yes,” he says, because it’s the right thing to say. “I’ll believe you, hyung.”

“Good, remember that? Won’t you? Don’t forget.”

And with that, Chanyeol hops down from the window sill, his hand still in Jongin’s. He replaces it though with the water bottle, and stuffs the bottle of painkillers in his pocket. “Chanyeol-ah,” Jongin murmurs, keeping his eyes on his Adam’s Apple. Chanyeol doesn’t reply, instead, he helps Jongin to his feet, making sure that they land on Chanyeol’s shoes. “What are you doing? Won’t your feet hurt?”

Chanyeol chuckles, and he looks a lot less anxious. “I don’t want your bare feet getting poked. Now hurry inside and get back to your practice. I’ll be fine.”

“Really?”

“Believe me.” Jongin isn’t sure which one he means, but he’ll take it as both.

♕♕♕

“Are you purposely exposing yourself to injuries?” Sojin asks, her words dry and obviously not amused. She rubs her face with her palm, showing off her tired skin. “You’re a dancer, be sensible. Holding out stretches will hurt. Prolonged practice with little to no breaks in between will hurt _a lot._ And you seem to be acting out both no-no’s.”

“Sorry Sojin-ssi,” Jongin groans into the ice pack. He’s not injured in the face, it’s just it’s so cooling. He had gotten a weird look from Jongdae when he peeked in and asked for an ice pack, the man tossing it his way with squinting eyes. “I didn’t practice much yesterday, so I needed to make up for it.”

“Yesterday was your off day,” Sojin deadpans. “You shouldn’t really practice.” Joonmyun had left the two of them alone an hour ago, huffing about Sojin needing to teach Jongin how to showcase theatrical emotions. He had stormed off, muttering about how he has to nurture Yixing and Luhan’s romance scene, which they’re have a bit of trouble with.

“I need to be good enough though.” Jongin tosses the ice pack aside, the slushy bag lumping against the ground. Sojin can’t play the piano, so they’ve been dancing to the music in her Ipod for the past three hours. “I need to make them proud.”

Sojin lets her head drop. “Oh Jongin,” she says tiredly. “You’re hurting yourself. See? Your ankles are acting up.” She points to them, and how he had position them so that they won’t bother him with the dull pain. “Why won’t you go to the physio? Don’t tell me you’re turning into those dancers who have to be _dragged_ to the medic center, right?”

Jongin shakes his head. “No, I love the doctors there. And Chanyeol.” He winces when he shifts his weight, hands trailing to his ankles. “It’s just that...” his words fade and they start to wither. Chanyeol’s unusual unsteadiness of his face and the frightened look in his eyes is embed in Jongin’s head, the image of him flinching at Jongin’s touch replaying over and over in his thoughts, until it becomes nothing.

“Is it your weight plan?” she guesses. Sojin and him have grown to have some sort of understanding relationship; the ex-ballerina who still has _Giselle_ tattooed on her back, is helping Jongin write it into his skin too, and all over for that matter.

“Yeah,” Jongin lies, and these days, it’s easier. Maybe Joonmyun is right, he _is_ changing. “That’s it.”

Sojin clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Sorry, kiddo. That’s white coats’ laws, and I’m not going to help you break them.” She stands up, unplugging her Ipod away from the speakers. “We really can’t dance with your ankles bothering you like that. The lights are going to shut off in an hour anyways. I’ll give you at least that, but I’m not for it.” She frowns. “And don’t worry about the weight plan, everyone goes through them.”

“I know.” Sojin stuffs her things into her bag, humming along to the song that has left the air. “Wait,” Jongin raises his arms and waves them around, trying to get her attention.

“What is it?”

He props himself up against the barres, an outpouring stream of giddiness leaves his vision dotted with colors that aren’t meant to be there. “Can you tell me a story?” he asks sheepishly, tugging on his sweat-stained shirt. “About your experience as Myrtha. You mentioned about it here and there, but I just don’t want to feel alone.” He wraps his arms around his waist, pretending that his arms are someone else’s comfort.

“Alone?” she asks ruefully. However, she drops her bag to the floor, and sinks right down next to him. “Well, I guess that’s a common feeling, feeling alone.”

Eagerly, Jongin scoots closer so that he’s more comfortable. “So will you?”

Sojin nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Back then, it was the original version of Giselle. Meaning the gender roles were parallel to their genders. And I was Myrtha. How old were you back then? In 2008?”

“Twelve or something.”

“Well, when you were twelve or something, I was cast through these secret auditions. Back then, Director Joonmyun usually didn’t pick the roles. They were automatically given to the best of the best. I was chosen though, for reasons he never disclosed to me.” Sojin pauses, and her eyes are distant. “It was hard. You get treated differently, especially when the ‘better’ dancers like the principals didn’t feel all good about a lower rank ballerina taking their supposed role.”

“But you were a principal back then?” Jongin says questionably.

“I _became_ a principal after _Giselle_ ended. And they especially didn’t like that.” Sojin looks exceptionally younger, when her hair covers her face and she’s thinking about the years past. “Your Luhan was a corps back then. He was around your age, maybe like twenty-one actually.”

Jongin feels a swell of happiness when Luhan’s name is mentioned.

“I don’t know if you remember, but he smiled a lot back then. Kind of like you?” Sojin searches his face, as if to confirm. “He always came to my dressing room and brought me water, because I was too afraid to face the older dancers. His Korean wasn’t that good, but he meant well. Then...”

Then he stopped smiling.

Sojin shakes her head, as if to rid herself of a thought. “It’s a hard experience, taking on a big role when you never got the chance to before.” She pats Jongin on the shoulder to encourage him. “I’m proud of you, Jongin. I’m glad you’re taking all of this well. I know Joonmyun-ssi can be rough, but he’s an artist at heart.”

Sojin excuses herself, telling him that her husband is calling her and that it’s far too late now. The studio doors shut, and he sits himself into the far corner, where it’s the coldest. And he sits there, until the lights shut off.

♕♕♕

The lights in the kitchen are the brightest in the entire house.

Jongin swings his legs from the counter, sweatpants so long that they snuggle nearly all the way up to his toes. “We need to get you new pants,” Sehun mutters, taking a sip of his beer. He has always found it funny, the way Sehun drinks alcohol like others drink tea; dainty and the pinky up. “You’ve tripped on the stairs in those sweats more times than you take trips to the bathroom.”

“Not funny,” Jongin sticks his tongue out at him. Luhan shuffles into the kitchen at that moment, making a beeline for the fridge. “Oh, hyung! Are you hungry? Sehunnie and I are going to make dinner—,”

“Not hungry,” Luhan replies easily. He snatches an energy drink from the refrigerator. “Don’t pretend like you’ll eat any of it, _Sehunnie._ ” When Sehun tenses up, he leaves, and they both hear his loud footsteps up the stairs and over their heads.

“Fucking bastard,” he mutters into his drink, and this time he takes a long swig. Lips coated in liquor, he offers the bottle to Jongin. “You want some?”

Jongin’s heart pinches a bit too hard, and he thinks back to the bar with Chanyeol’s hands tight in his, with both their tongues feeling alcoholic. “No,” he manages out after swallowing air, “I’m fine.”

“You look like you need the knock-out,” Sehun shrugs, and takes back the beer. “What’s on your mind?”

Jongin looks at the clock, and it’s much too late for any conversation. “Chanyeol,” he admits. “I’m...I’m just, you know, you’re all confusing me. I don’t get it. What did he do?” Jongin turns so that he’s looking right at Sehun. The latter is flustered, either from the alcohol or bringing up this morning’s dispute.

“It’ll blow over,” Sehun says unhelpfully. “You don’t have to stress yourself over it—”

“—I can handle my stress, Sehunnie.” Jongin says, a tad bit too heavily. “We’re the same age.”

Sehun finishes his beer, and sets the glass down on the table. His eyes are glazed over, but Jongin knows that it takes more than one bottle to get him completely red. “I didn’t mean it like that Jongin. I didn’t it mean it like that at all.”

He knows he doesn’t, because if there’s anyone that knows Sehun best, it’s him. But he can’t help it, because pushing his limits is the only way to talk to Sehun—the _real_ Sehun.

“Come on, Sehun-ah,” Jongin presses, his lower lip sticking out. “You’re Yoora’s lover, and Chanyeol is her brother. And I, I _care_ for him. He’s a good friend.”

Yes, friend, because that seems to suffice enough for the causal relationships of movie nights to holding hands with ‘friends’ and pretending everything is alright. It’s enough. “It’s really some silly rumors,” Sehun says, eyes wide and leaving no room for Jongin to search them. Look for the doubt and confessions. “Yoora doesn’t like them, and it would’ve been left alone had Luhan not...well, brought it up.”

Jongin, blatantly irked by his shady words, hops off the counter. He straightens up like the voices tell him to, his shoulders squared and keeping his eyes soft but leveled. “Sehun,” he says, voice louder. “I’m going to find out anyways.”

Sehun tugs on his ear, one of his nervous habits. “Wouldn’t you rather hear from Chanyeol instead?”

Jongin looks away. “I don’t want to ask. He looked sick when it was brought up.” His throat goes dry at the thought of him, with his hair pulled back so that he looks older, maturity thriving off his reddish lips and the tie that hangs too loosely off his neck. The idea of Chanyeol getting hurt leaves cuts on Jongin’s heart, and his hands ball up at his sides.

“People said he was fired from his position at Good Moonhwa Hospital, you know that place? We drove past it once when we went to visit some ballet schools.” Jongin nods slowly, eyes flickering up and down at Sehun. He can tell he’s trying to pull away from the reveal, by bringing up fond memories.

“Go on, Sehunnie.”

Sehun clears his throat, and wipes away sweat at his temple with the back of his sleeve. He doesn’t act drunk, but he can sure pass for one. “I don’t know, I heard this from Joohyun? Remember when I mentioned it in January?” he looks nervous, acts nervous. “I took it with a grain of salt, and you should, too. And it’s Joohyun, you know how she is. Sure she’s Yoora’s friend but she also gets jealous—”

“Sehun, just tell me.”

It feels wrong, asking Sehun about Chanyeol’s secrets. Jongin itches to make it stop, to cover his ears with the flat of his palms until Sehun stops talking. Until he can’t hear anymore.

But he doesn’t.

“Why did he get fired?” Jongin asks, and he’s pulling on his feelings until the ends feel tired from all the pressure. He doesn’t understand. Chanyeol is a good doctor, even if he doesn’t want to be called one. The way he tends to Jongin’s ankles and coaxes the boy into a weight plan that leaves most dancers trembling.

Sehun shuts his eyes. There are very few things that are hard for Sehun to say or do. He can confess romance to a girl in a club in Gangnam because he knows he’ll never see her again. He can easily lie with the flat of his face. But he can’t breathe when it rains too hard, and he’s afraid of orphanages. He’s also afraid of hurting Jongin.

“He worked in the internal medicine department. It was a hall down from the children’s department, I guess,” Sehun lets the heaviness of the words linger a bit, even if Jongin can’t really understand. “He was most loved among the kids, too.”

He’s fidgeting. It’s not a good sign.

“Chanyeol doesn’t have any friends—adult friends, I mean. You know Gayoon? Before she dropped out of medical school she was an intern to one of the nurses at Good Moonwha. Said he was kind of weird. Ate lunch alone, never interacted with the other doctors. Except for this scrub nurse, whose name was Byun Baekbeom. Gayoon said it was only because he was someone’s brother he knew. One of the children was always seen around him. People said he took advantage of the kids. Hurt one, too.”


	12. Fake Smokers

When Jongin wakes up, there’s no good morning texts from Chanyeol.

No zodiacs or reminders to eat according his meal plans. Luhan had given him his phone back on the counter, and nothing greeted him when Jongin turned it on. A shiver courses along his spine, and he keeps his eyes on the marble of the counter, not saying anything

“You have to eat,” Sehun says, shoving the plate of a sliced up grapefruit towards him. His medication is sitting on a pretty blue napkin next to it too, but Jongin doesn’t even want to look at it. “Do you not want fruits? I’m sorry Jongin, I’ll do the groceries later tonight. We can eat at the convenience store if you want.”

“Not hungry,” he replies dully. He thrusts the plate away from him with unintentional force, and the plate nearly tips over the ledge. Sehun, cursing under his breath grabs the plate with his quick reflexes, even if the sliced up grapefruit has sloshed across the floor. It’ll be sticky later.

“Jongin!” Sehun says, his voice raised. “Why are you acting like this?”

He doesn’t really know. The phone is on its dimmest setting. So from Sehun’s angle, he doesn’t see Chanyeol’s contact opened up, and the cogs and gears in Jongin’s head grinding against each other, wondering if he should call him.

“Like what?” Jongin asks him, though not that interested. _Chanyeol, are you there?_

Sehun is on his knees, crouched down to pluck the spilled fruit off the floor and tossing it into the trash. What a waste.

“I’m sorry it upset you last night but I’m sure if you called Chanyeol, it’ll blow over and—”

Jongin zones him out. He squeezes his eyes shut, heaving himself off the chair and grabbing only his bag.

“Jongin!”

Hurrying into his worn down shoes, Jongin shuts the door with a strength that could almost convince the two of them that his knees aren’t about to give way.

Collapsing on the front porch, he chokes out a sob, pressing his face against the wall even if it is dirty. “It’s not true, it’s not true, it’s not true,” he repeats to himself, and he sounds like the broken music box in the room, the one Luhan never bothered to fix. “It’s not true at all, it’s not true.”

He hears the front door open, but he pretends he doesn’t. Bare feet pads towards him, and long but skinny arms wrap around Jongin desperately. This time, he doesn’t try to fight it, letting Sehun whisper ‘ _it’s okay,’_ and ‘ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry’_ into his ear.

It’s not like they care if their neighbors see, because the whole street knows the little red house isn’t the happiest on the small road.

“Chanyeol is a good person,” Jongin huffs out between sniffles. “You lied to me, lied, and lied!” he tries to wiggle out of his grasp, but Sehun tightens his hold on him, his breathing harsh. “Best friends don’t lie to each other, why did you? Why did you?”

When Jongin calms down—or just stopped trying to kick—Sehun rakes his fingers through his hair, pressing a long kiss into his hairline. Luhan is still asleep upstairs, but Jongin thinks he’s at the window watching the scene unfold, with a cigarette between his lips unlit because he’s out of a lighter.

“I’m sure he is a good person,” Sehun murmurs, his hot breath tickling Jongin’s skin. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

Jongin remembers sitting in Chanyeol car, the interior neat and organized. The photograph of a little boy and Chanyeol taped to the dashboard. _He’s not like that at all, Chanyeol is a good person. He’s a good person._ He remembers his smile in the photograph, the kind that can’t be faked even with editing or angles. The boy—Kyungsoo—that was standing next to him with chubby cheeks and balled up hands grabbing onto two of Chanyeol’s fingers.

_He’s a good person._

Jongin drags his tee shirt across his face, wiping away at his eyes. He shifts his feet around, so that it doesn’t knock one of the empty flower pots. Their porch isn’t the cleanest, because Luhan doesn’t like anyone else fixing up the house. “ _I’m not gonna pay some fucker to touch my house,”_ he would tell them if they ever brought up fixing up the furnace or the cracks in the living room. They don’t blame him, really, especially since he bought this house for all three of them with his late hours and body.

“What time is it?” Jongin asks, his voice fresher than it was a few minutes ago.

Sehun lets go, but keeps Jongin’s head on his shoulder. It’s picture-worthy, the way they’re leaning against each other against the red bricks of their home. They don’t have many photos together, they actually don’t have any at all.

“Almost time to be at the metro station.” Sehun interlaces his hand with Jongin’s. It seems apologetic, almost. “You okay bud?”

Jongin nods, and he doesn’t have to use so many words, because Sehun understands the most under their roof. His eyes flicker up, because their bedroom window is open and they can hear Luhan’s coughing. It’s obvious that the man was listening to them. “I’m fine,” he says. He’s not.

Sehun laughs, but it’s so tired that it can be passed off for clearing his throat. “Liar, you. The biggest liar in Yeonhui-dong,” Sehun says, but it lacks bite, and Jongin doesn’t care. “You’re pissed. Your heart hurts, and you want to hit either me or Luhan, huh?”

Jongin shakes his head with more energy this time. “I never would hit either of you. I love you too much.” He counts the number of cut marks on Sehun’s knuckles. He won’t mention those. “My heart hurts? Is that like a heartbreak?”

“No. And I hope you’ll never get one.” Sehun yawns, because neither of them got any sleep after the last night’s confessions. “You of all people, don’t need that sort of feeling.”

It sounds forced, but Jongin takes it. 

♕♕♕

Luhan holds the carton of cigarettes like it’s a brand new toy. “I’ve always liked Dunhill,” he beams when Jongin walks in, tying his shoes up. “Sure, Esse Lights are _fun_ , but these are just exhilarating.” He holds it up to his face, pressing his bony cheeks up to them like an endorsement ad.

“He’s not in the mood,” Sehun snaps, kicking Luhan’s chair when he walks past. “I’m not in the mood. So fuck off, hyung.”

Luhan’s face goes sour for a moment, like he’s ready to stand up to grab Sehun’s collar. Instead, he smiles that sick smile of his. Trademark. “Honey, I’m in the mood.” He pops one of the carton, offering one to Sehun. “I’ll help you get in the mood, too.”

Sehun’s expression withers. “Go fuck a blunt,” he says, grabbing two water bottles from the fridge and tossing it in his bag.

“Sehun,” Jongin starts off unwieldy, standing up when his laces are all knotted. “It’s okay.”

Luhan has managed to look good today, instead of the typical messy hair that despises combs, and the shirts that punctuates his sharp collarbones and love bites. It’s not hot at all outside, but he has a full long sleeve and jeans with no rips in them. “Jonginnie!” he exclaims, tossing the carton aside. “Play with me.”

Jongin stiffens, remembering how strained Chanyeol’s face was yesterday and the porch. “Please don’t smoke. Not so early in the morning,” he hunches his shoulders so that they appear smaller, a sense of security around them. “They’re bad for your lungs.”

Luhan doesn’t take this seriously. “Sure. Of course they are.” He kicks his feet up on the table, pushing aside a stack of spam mails. “What’s with you two today? Ah, the frowny faces.” He looks to Jongin, his eyes accentuated with long lashes and the flush of cheek. He looks so _beautiful,_ but it’s a lot less than that. “I can kiss it better.”

“Just fuck off today,” Sehun mutters, but it’s loud enough. “Just fuck off forever.”

“I’m so excited,” Luhan says, dismissing Sehun’s remark. “It’s almost like my birthday.” His eyes are dark when he mentions _birthday_ , but his bright gestures takes away from it.

Jongin can’t take it anymore. He grabs his sweatshirt and hurries upstairs, slipping a few times going up.

“Jongin!” he hears Sehun shout his name. “Hey, come down. Jongin—you fuck up everything, Luhan. You’re a fucking virus.” Jongin slams the bedroom door shut, crawling into his bed and ruining what Sehun had organized.

Sehun hurries in after him, face etched with worry.

“Sehunnie, can you go away?” Jongin asks, muffling his words with the teddy bear.

Sehun sighs, bending his neck a bit so that he can sit down on the bed. He reaches over to pat Jongin’s thigh, soothing him. “We have to go soon though,” he says quietly. “Just don’t listen to Luhan.”

“Luhan always means well, though.” Jongin tightens his grasp on the stuffed animal. He had this bear since he was younger, maybe eight when his sister won it for him at an amusement park. Back then, when they would scold him for biting on his fingernails, he buried his face into the bear as a form of comfort. Nowadays, he’s too old for that, and they’ll call him _crazy_ if he coddles a bear in the streets.

Even if he still needs that comfort.

Chanyeol’s name is whispered in the back of his head, reminding him of a way of comfort, the one that’s tall and has enough room under his arms for one more person. Like a teddy bear, almost. _No,_ he thinks, shaking his head into the bear. _Sehun is my teddy bear, maybe Luhan, maybe Joonmyun—_

Liar.

“Come on, let’s get up. We don’t want to be late.” Sehun eyes the stuffed teddy in his arm, and smiles. “You want to bring that?”

Jongin hesitates, before setting it back in its corner, next to the pillows with the woven designs thanks to Soojung. “No,” he shakes his head, following Sehun out. “I don’t need it.”

♕♕♕

Hongdae’s underground station is a five minute walk from Yeonhui. Their own small neighborhood has no transportation of its own really, and maybe that’s why no one touches this part of Seoul. It’s hidden away, and Jongin himself can’t even say it’s like an unpolished gem, because it isn’t. The stores are old, and the cafe owners see maybe two or three customers a day. The houses are in various colors, lining up against a street scattered with kids who hates buses.

The way to the station today however, felt more like five hours than five minutes.

Luhan looks awfully happy, enough to pass for eccentricity. His steps are skipped and Jongin keeps a wary eye on his feet, because his laces are untied and he’s walking too fast. Sehun shoots Jongin a few comforting and apologetic smiles along the way, their duffel bags with their worth bumping against one another.

At the station, Jongin avoids eye contact with Luhan when they slide their cards in. The man obviously doesn’t take an easy liking to this, and opts for brushing fingers with him and getting on his toes close to his ear so Jongin has no choice but to look at him.

“Hyung...”

Sehun rips Luhan away from Jongin by the strap of his bag. “Fuck off,” he mutters, and Luhan snaps. Entirely, and in two.

“I don’t get your problem,” Luhan says snidely, looking back and forth at Jongin who buries his face into his hands. He’s not hiding away from the world per say, but more like pretending Lu isn’t there.

And this is a first.

“You’re acting like I did something bad,” Luhan continues, gritting his teeth together and throwing his bag on the floor. The station is mainly empty, except for an old woman not interested in young people’s angst. “I’m a _god._ I’m doing a good deed.” He spins around on the flat of his feet, so that his hair falls in front of his face, making him look just as ageless as Chanyeol had. “You want someone to blame? Blame that _child lover_ of yours Jongin—”

“ _Stop!_ ” Jongin cries out, and the old woman scoots away. He brings his trembling hands to his ears, which are jerking violently enough that Sehun rushes over and tries to steady them. “It’s not true. Chanyeol isn’t like that. You just heard a lie, Lu! He wouldn’t do that.”

He thinks about how Chanyeol held him tightly after bursting out of Joonmyun’s place, whispering sweet nothings into his ear as he rubs his shoulders warmly. Affectionate.

For a moment, he thinks he sees hurt fleet across Luhan’s face. “What’s this? You take his word over mine?” Lu tilts his head, and Jongin can see the dark circles under all that concealer. He wants to tell him to go to bed, he wants to make him smile. He wants him to stop talking about Chanyeol. “You’re kidding yourself.”

Sehun pinches the bridge of his nose, his mouth moving a few times like he has some things to say but they never go past his teeth. Instead, he just pushes Luhan aside, but more gentle this time, and pulls on Jongin by the zipper of his bag along with him.

Luhan stands there at the ticket machine, his bag slumped on the floor and an expression that scares Jongin in the worst hours. And this is one of them.

“You’re acting up,” Luhan’s voice is faint when Sehun pulls them to the other side of the station. “See what this _Chanyeol_ has done to you? He’s taking you away from me!” If there was a crack in his voice, maybe that’s why Sehun looks so grim.

“This is a fucking mess,” Sehun mutters. “He has gone full psycho. Really, it’s all that LSD blotters he has on his damn tongue.” Jongin slows his pace a bit. He fidgets a bit, because something programmed between the gears in his thoughts tells him, _go back. Run back and kiss Luhan._

He’s thankful that Sehun’s grip on him is tight enough.

“Don’t let his words affect you, okay Jongin? Remember when we were eighteen and someone up in Incheon pissed him off? And he toyed with that guy until he was on his knees apologizing with his spit? Well, it’s like that now. It’ll go away, Jongin. It’s just...” Jongin smiles softly, because he’s not sure if Sehun is trying to convince himself or him.

“Chanyeol isn’t that kind of person,” he says. “I know it.”

Sehun sits the two of them down on the bench, and when they look back, Luhan is slumped against the wall with smoke busting out of his mouth. He’s not following them, and that calms some nerves in Jongin. _What’s wrong with me?_ “He treated you well,” Sehun says, his voice low in the way that Jongin can’t ever tell if it’s genuine or played. “You smile a lot when you talk about him. You stopped calling him hyung too.”

“Do I really smile a lot?” Jongin asks, bringing his hand to the corner of his lips. “I don’t notice.”

“Of course you won’t notice your own smile. But it’s there.” Sehun loosens the collar of his shirt. “I trust you. So I’ll trust him.”

The tension is thick when they’re in the subway cart. Sehun won’t let them sit next to Luhan, even if Jongin insists that it’s only right, because that’s how they always do it. Together. Sehun kept a firm no to his lips, saying that Luhan needed to “cool the fuck off”.

He’s doing his plies a few seats down, and Jongin watches him with a steady gaze. The other passengers are all used to it now; the ballet boy twisting around on a moving cart. Some even make room for him, letting him hold onto the metal railing so that he can perfect a few stretches that look godly to the common eye. A few times, they’ll clap, and Luhan smiles a pretty smile that convinces the masses that he’s truly a flawless ballerino.

“Look at him,” Sehun snorts. “You’d think he’s an angel.”

“He is,” says Jongin, his eyes still on him. His heart doesn’t hurt as bad as it had before, and maybe it’s because Chanyeol isn’t on the subway. “Luhan is an angel.”

“Angels don’t smoke,” Sehun says coldly, plugging in his earbuds. “Angels don’t wake up in stranger’s beds, and they certainly don’t have a _secret cabinet."_

When Luhan finishes his little “show” of stretches and easy but eye-catching ballet skips, he turns around. Jongin is taken back by the level of intensity in Luhan’s eyes when he holds them to his, but he’s more disturbed by how _sad_ they look.

It lasts only a few seconds though, before Luhan plops down in his seat, and they pretend they don’t know each other.

♕♕♕

Sehun and Jongin wait for Luhan at the platform. “It’s only right,” Jongin says, frowning. He has a firm grip on a begrudging Sehun. “It wouldn’t hurt to wait for Lu.”

They watch as people pile out of the metro, briefcases brushing up against backpacks and the neighborhood _ahjumma_ who is merciless with her cane. Jongin winces in secondhand pain when she whacks a teenage boy in the shin when he didn’t give her room. They catch Luhan with an unlit cigarette between his mouth, and a brand new lighter in his hand that he probably bought from some high school kid.

“Hah,” Luhan huffs out, taking the stick out of his mouth to really smile. It’s not a good one, but it’s not so bad. Jongin’s face softens, his lips beginning to form the ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’. Luhan’s eyes runs over to Sehun, almost victoriously before returning back to Jongin with a glint to his eye that he is too familiar with. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Yes,” Jongin nods eagerly, and grabs Sehun by the arm. “We both were, actually.” Sehun snorts, but doesn’t say anything else. Luhan keeps his eyes between them for the longest time, and it feels like _déjà vu,_ when they stood in front of the metro, pushed around by bustling and disinterested businessmen and college kids. Except this time, luhan looks even more tired. He looks like he hasn’t slept, but they know that he did, with him slumped across his mattress in a deep slumber. It was almost endearing.

“Of course you waited,” Luhan holds the stick back up, and holds out the lighter to Jongin. “Do the honors, darling?” he asks, plopping the lighter into Jongin’s palms. Sehun tenses up beside him, and Jongin just stares at the plastic thing, swallowing thick saliva.

 _Don’t think too hard._ Jongin nods and the three of them pull away from the doors of the metro, near the stairs leading up outside. Sehun sighs loudly and purposely, and Luhan leans in close enough so that Jongin can see his lip scar and the dry patches of skin from hot showers. Jongin holds the lighter up, and rolls his thumb until a flame flickers just enough to light Luhan’s heaven.

He smiles.

Luhan reaches up to tap his face—a form of adoration, maybe—and wordlessly, they all head up to busy Seoul.

Smoke puffs out here and there from his lips, and he looks like a walking photograph. Jongin stares at him in awe as they walk, and it’s obvious how much Luhan is enjoying the attention.

“Careful, _hyung,"_  Sehun says dryly. “Arrogance is a bad look with you. Especially with those shoes.”

Luhan’s grin widens. “I never asked, sugarcake.” He winks up at Sehun, who scoffs so loud that it disturbs the girl walking beside them. She quickens her pace, and Jongin watches her slip into an art studio four stores away from the company. “Are you looking at the girl?” he asks out of the blue, and jolts Jongin out of his daze.

“Huh?”

Luhan looks away. “My Jongin is growing up. He’s looking at _girls._ ” Luhan says the word like it’s a small joke of his, and sure, it could be.

“Leave him alone, Lu.” Sehun pulls Jongin in closer to him.

Luhan puffs out again, and this time, Jongin can smell it on his clothes. “Tragic.” Luhan slows his pace, his steps more sluggard but they still somehow manage to walk in step beside each other, all three of them. _What a happy family._ “I don’t want little Jongin to grow up. Liking girls. That means I can’t be your guardian anymore.”

Jongin frowns, but his heartstrings tug desperately towards his gut. “But I’m twenty,” he says quietly. “You’re not my guardian anymore. Not since last year.” Luhan doesn’t respond to that, at least not verbally, but the puff of smoke and slowed pace may give an answer.

The company doors are a few steps away, and Jongin keeps his eyes on the ground. And they would’ve stayed on the ground, had Luhan not whistled. Jongin looks up, just in time to hold himself before he trips.

Chanyeol looks fine. His hair isn’t all up like it usually is, the way that makes him look like a friendly business executive. His glasses are resting on the bridge of his nose, a bit crooked because Jongin knows he falls asleep in them sometimes, especially when the clinic is slow. His clothes aren’t wrinkled as Jongin has envisioned them to be, but he looks functioning and well.

Even without a smile.

His hand rests on the handle of the doors to the company, his shoulders not too broad when slumped; his bag looks too heavy. Sehun clears his throat, the anxious look in his eyes. It reminds him of when they were twelve at the academy, and Sehun was scared he wouldn’t get the pass because of the bruise close to his eye. Sehun’s hand finds a way to tug on Jongin’s shirt, as if to say, _don’t say anything and go._

Jongin doesn’t though, because there’s no point to that. In eye contact, his heart feels too heavy. Even if everything looks _fine, fine, fine, fine_ with Chanyeol, it’s not. Not really. His hand falls from the door handle, and stays limp by his side.

“Good morning,” Chanyeol says quietly, not loud enough to be his own voice but just enough for everyone else to hear. “I’ll be going in now.”

That would be best, but that’s not what Luhan wants.

“Do you really want to go in?” Luhan asks loudly, and the people walking by are giving them the side look. Jongin wonders what they really think of them. Three bony men with their ballet flats hanging off their duffel bag, and a man that looks too pale to be healthy. “What will they think of you?” Luhan’s voice drips, slowly and deliberate.

Jongin can’t take it. “It’s not true,” he says hastily, grabbing onto Luhan’s wrist. His grip is so tight that Lu writhes in his grasp and hisses, the cigarette between his teeth nearly tittering out of his mouth. He lets go instantly, and guilt washes over him too quickly for him to let him see anything else but the irritation on Luhan’s face. “It’s not true,” he repeats himself, a little bit quieter. “Let’s go inside.”

Chanyeol’s face is a sheet of blatant shock. And if Jongin didn’t look up in the right second, he would’ve missed how Chanyeol’s mouth forms Jongin’s name, but nothing comes out.

“Go ahead,” Luhan says, voice harder and his wrist cradling in his hand. There’s faint red marks on his wrist, and Jongin recoils. _I did that to him._ “Go ahead and open the damn door. Let them all know, you _sick freak._ ”

Sehun sucks his breath in harshly, and throws his arm around Luhan’s shoulder, forcibly pulling him away to the other pairs of doors. Jongin hurries and follows after them, and hears Chanyeol’s whisper. “Wait,” he says under his breath, hand reaching for Jongin.

For a moment, Chanyeol hesitates. It’s not in the safety of their clinic, where only a few at most come in for a checkup or a flu shot. They’re not in the car, where Jongin can sit back and watch Seoul in its blur. They’re in the streets, and Sehun and Luhan are watching.

His hand drops.

“Wait,” Chanyeol repeats again, now that he has his attention. Jongin holds his breath, turning to face him. “Don’t go. Please don’t go. I want to talk to you.”

Luhan turns red, and the wrinkle between his brow creases and his lips in a thin line. “Go ahead,” he snarls, and Jongin breaks out of his ease. The cig is still between his lips, but it’s only for a second before it disappears between his fingers and smoke huffs out angrily. “Go and talk to your _child lover."_

Chanyeol’s face tightens, and gone is the safety in his eyes. When he looks up, there’s an eerie calm that sits just as comfortably as his glasses. Jongin unsure what to do, doesn’t budge. “Fake smoker,” he says, his voice not loud but clear. “Your lungs won’t go rotten like you want them to.”

“ _What?_ ”

Jongin opens his mouth to say something but it doesn’t happen. Chanyeol brushes past Jongin, shoulder and shoulder pressed up for only a moment. Chanyeol stands in front of Luhan, and the height difference is noticed between Luhan’s twitching and narrowed eyes and Chanyeol’s eyes downcast on him.

“Say it again,” Luhan says, and he’s holding his cigarette so tightly that the ashes start to ooze out in flakes. Sehun is anxious again, running his palms up and down his jeans as he looks around just for the sake of not looking at _them._ “Say it to my face you—”

Chanyeol plucks the already twisted cancer stick out of Luhan’s hand, and pushes the head of it down onto the nearby ashtray. Luhan protests by grabbing Chanyeol’s arm rather violently, and all Jongin can do is choke down a sob. “Stop it, we should just go and dance that’s what we’re supposed to do.” Chanyeol looks back at him, face soften just for him. “This isn’t what’s supposed to happen, stop it.”

“We’re supposed to dance,” Luhan echoes, but it sounds hollower coming from his mouth. “Just that. But you just had to show up in the shit middle of January and here we are now, fucking it all up. You’re taking Jongin away from me.” Luhan doesn’t care that people are looking, some slowing down to watch and others hurrying out of the scene. _Drama,_ no one likes drama. Nobody except the performer.

“I took away your cigarette,” Chanyeol says, prying Luhan’s iron grip off him. “Jongin is a person. You don’t take people away.” He looks back at the ashtray, eyes flickering up at Jongin who is too busy counting the seconds on his fingers. “I took your little cigarette away though, because it was embarrassing me.”

Sehun snaps out of his own fear, and is motioning for Jongin to hurry in as he cards himself. “Embarrassing you?” Luhan asks, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. His smile is sticky, like glue. Fake, too. His hands are tucked away in his pockets now, but even Jongin can see how pale and shaky they are. “ _I_ should be the only one embarrassed that you’re not in _jail_ yet—”

“You’re doing it for effects,” Chanyeol says calmly. “The way you smoke, it doesn’t even hit your lungs. You think it won’t do damage to you if you just suck and hold? Your teeth and tongue are getting the worst of it.” Luhan freezes, and Jongin has never seen him so still, not even in sleep. “But you’re still addicted to it. Just no black lungs.”

Luhan isn’t looking at him. Rather, he’s trained onto the ashtray.

“This isn’t a movie,” says Chanyeol, sounding exhausted. “So don’t act.”

♕♕♕

It starts.

Jongin tugs a comb through his wet hair, his sweatshirt two sizes too large for him. He doesn’t mind when his chair is bumped by hurrying dancers and staff, but he does mind about what they’re saying.

“Loosen the grip on the comb,” Minseok mutters, his brows slanted in an uneasy sort. “My God, it’s going to snap off.” He reaches over and tries his best to peel Jongin’s fingers off it, noting how white his knuckles.

“They’re talking about Chanyeol,” Jongin says, and his voice is heavy. He lets Minseok run the comb through his hair for him, because his own are too shaky to do anything. “I…I _hate_ it, hyung. I hate it so much.”

Minseok’s hands falters in his hair. “Chanyeol was your friend, right? You always hung out in the physio even when it wasn’t check-up time.”

Jongin bites down on his lip. He’ll regret it later, because they don’t keep lip balm at home. “He _is_ my friend.” Jongin thinks back to the photograph on Yoora’s desk at the clinic, with a hesitant brother and a sister who shared the same genes and smile. “It’s not true. Everything they’re saying.”

“How do you know?” Minseok asks, and sighs. “I know it sounds bad, but you can’t just disregard it because he’s your friend. What if it _is_ true? What are you going to do? What if Chanyeol really is…” he cuts off when Jongin stands up abruptly, nearly knocking down his chair. It’s loud when it does, and everyone in the room stops talking and just stares.

“It’s not true,” Jongin snaps. Minseok flinches, his eyes widening. Yixing, who was sitting in the corner with a hoodie shadowing his face looks up as well, the lollipop in his mouth moving under his cheek. “It’s not true at all.”

“Jongin, baby, you need to sit down.” Ryeowook squints at him through his hair iron. It isn’t as if Jongin hadn’t heard him talk about Chanyeol like he was a rat just moments earlier. “You’re disrupting everyone. All the little power going to your head—”

“Stop it,” Jongin says, his voice cracking. “ _You’re disrupting everything._ ” Jongin whirls around, his chest moving up and down heavily and erratically. _Stop,_ he thinks, _I should stop. I should be exactly what I was made to do, I should shut up and be pretty, shut up and be pretty, shut up and be pretty._ “You don’t know Chanyeol! Stop acting like you do. You didn’t even know his first name before today! All you ever called him was _Dr. Park, Dr. Park,_ and he hates that! He hates it so much and yet you don’t…you don’t care.”

Everyone is dead silent. Ryeowook sets his iron down, his hair only partially curled at his temples. Yixing looks amused, but he always does. Taeyong’s eyes are flickering back and forth at him and a bewildered Ten, who still doesn’t know enough Korean to understand what Jongin is screaming about.

“Jonginnie, lets sit down.” Minseok tugs urgently on the back of his sweatshirt, ushering him to sit down on his chair. He laughs awkwardly at everyone. “Sorry everyone about this, Jongin-ah here doesn’t mean it.”

 _He doesn’t mean it._ Jongin stands there in front of the entire corps, some nearly naked and others already in mid-stretch. _He doesn’t mean it,_ like when his eldest sister was digging her manicured nails into his shoulders, forcing him to bow down to the pastor who caught him climbing into the windows. _He doesn’t mean it at all,_ he remembers Zitao’s eyes showing overwhelmed emotions, when the pastor gripped him by the ear, muttering about _Chinese faggots,_ and Jongin was so glad the foreign boy couldn’t understand it.

_I mean it._

“I mean it,” he says coldly, voicing the thoughts he never could say when the pastor bolted the stained glass windows shut forever. Sehun is in the bathrooms a room over, and the running waters does a good job of blocking out the tension in the dressing rooms. Minseok looks around apprehensively, eyes running wildly around the room. Yixing has risen up now, lollipop out of his mouth and leaving a purple stain on his lips.

“Take your medications, kid.” Ryeowook snaps, standing up and slamming his iron down. “Respect your damn elders. You may be Luhan’s little kisser but you can shut your trap. Defending _pedophiles_ like they’re nothing, you…” his words splutters off, fuming. He scoffs, and Taeyong hides behind him shyly. “I can’t believe our theatre has a guy like that here. Even if privately owned.”

“He’s not a pedophile!” Jongin cries, and someone has his wrist in a clutch. Maybe it’s Yixing or Minseok, but that doesn’t matter. It feels familiar and bony, so maybe it’s the former. He writhes out of it, and Ryeowook’s angelic face turns sour, his prominent cheeks twitching when his mouth twists. When he stands up, Jongin realizes how much taller he is than the man, yet Ryeowook is always the one to look down on him.

Jongin is the only one not in attire, with his shirt still too big on his shoulders, his wet hair matting against his forehead. Ryeowook looks too smug, and he _hates_ it. “And how do you know?” Ryeowook asks, and his voice never fails to impress them all. Gentle, even if the words snarls. “Have you seen him around children? Why, isn’t there something like, restraining orders on him.”

“That’s enough out of you,” Yixing interrupts, but he seems too amused to really mean it. “Let the boy breathe.”

Jongin thinks back to the clinic, where children left with stickers on their foreheads, nose a bit runny and eyes puffy from the flu shot. But Chanyeol had pressed a kiss to their foreheads, and left their mothers beaming. Jongin too, finds himself wistful, wishing that Chanyeol would kiss him as well.

“I know,” Jongin replies, his words cracking. “I _just_ know.” His head hurts, and he wonders if Sehun had packed enough medication in his bag for two rounds. There’s movement in Ryeowook’s jaw, like he has too much to say but nothing is coming out. Donghae mutters something in his ear, and coaxes him to leave the room. Donghae gives Jongin a look that speaks too many volumes for him to really understand.

When everyone looks away, Jongin wipes away at his eyes, unaware until now that his eyes were wet. “How silly of me,” he murmurs to himself, sniffling into his sleeves. Yixing is gone too, and his lollipop sticks to the side of the trash can. “Silly me. I’m so…I’m so silly. I’m silly, I’m silly—” Jongin collapses into his chair, scaring whatever is left of Minseok.

“Christ, Jongin,” Minseok grips him by the shoulders, thumbs brushing up and down like he’s too fragile. “Oh fuck, Sehun is going to actually maim me.” His eyes search his, like he’s trying to read him. “You know Ryeowook isn’t going to let it go. Maybe if you ask Luhan to take care of this, he will? Make Ryeowook leave you alone. He did it before, right? With that Hong Kong transferee who touched—,”

Jongin pushes him away, shaking his head over and over. Minseok looks taken back, when Jongin’s back meets the wall in a thud. He brings his hands to his face, trying to hide how much he was trembling. _I’m so silly, so silly. Silly me, I shouldn’t have talked, Alice would’ve never done that._ “I don’t want to talk about Lu,” Jongin says quietly. “I’m fine.”

He stands up, and grabs his duffel with the small bottle of painkillers in the back of the compartment.

“Where are you going?”

Jongin tries his best to swallow his own breath and avoid eye contact with the other dancers. “I’m going to change.” 

♕♕♕

“Did you hear?”

“What?”

“I’m not sure, but don’t you go telling people I told you! I heard something about one of the physio members.”

“Oh! You mean _him?_ ”

“I should’ve known. We all should have. He was too talented to be manning down dancers in a theatre anyways. It was fucked up from the start.”

“I can’t believe I let him touch me! Oh, the thought of him even checking my knees freaks me out. Didn’t Joonmyun hire him?”

“Joonmyun was already a psycho, I’m not surprised he hired one too.”

“Hey! You two talking about Dr. Park?”

“ _Shh!_ Someone will hear us!”

“Who the fuck cares? Let them. I bet you that the only reason he downgraded to being a theatre medic is because no hospital hired him afterward. And who would? I heard something happened to one of the kids he doctored. Bet you he fucked that kid right up. Sick freak.”

“I don’t know…it’s all too—”

“What? Far-fetched? You can go ahead and leave then, Joo Hye. I’m telling you, someone said they saw him kiss a little boy in Busan. Is that far-fetched to you? You wanna side with him?”

“Never—”

  
“Then shut it. I know somebody who went to medical school with him too. Sit down and listen.”

♕♕♕

Jongin hasn’t seen Chanyeol in work for two days.

He wishes that he can say that things are still the same, but it’s not. Minseok is too wary of him, and Soojung can’t understand the issue that happened in the dressing rooms. Jongin isn’t sure if he himself understands it.

It has been raining for the past few days as well, and his sneakers are always sloshing wet when he rips them off because none of them own rain boots. Sehun had offered to get him some at the local supermarket—that place has everything—but Jongin always shook his head, and kept the shoes on the rack even if it drips down on his ballet flats.

He kicks his flats aside, because even he is annoyed at the blotchy spots of water stains on them the morning after, though it’s all his fault. His hand gropes around for the light switch, the lights blinking on. Jongin stares at it for a while, waiting for it to do the thing where it flickers for a few moments and then turn on. Except this time, it doesn’t turn on at all. Just keeps flickering.

He shuts off the lights, and blindly walks through the house in the dark.

He jumps when he hears someone cough, and yelps as a response. “Hello?” Jongin calls out, his voice cracking too much. He’s not a boy in puberty, but it doesn’t matter. It’s coming from the kitchen, so he turns on a nearby lamp that has dust on its shade. “Luhan, is that you?” The boy looks up, obviously woken up from his slumber. He looks almost _naked,_ his shorts too high up his thighs to be appropriate, and his shirt is so thin that Jongin can see him shake.

The furnace isn’t working again, and Jongin’s eye droops down to Luhan’s thighs. There’s little bite marks trailing up his flesh, and spots of unusual purple that Jongin hates seeing. Luhan blinks a few times, his hair too messy and his eyes rimmed with red.

“Hey sweetie,” Luhan says, his voice thick like he has a cold. There’s a scattered of cheap soju across the table and the tiniest of shot glasses on its side. They both know Lu can afford the more expensive kinds, but he says he’s most fond of the cheap ones. Reminds him of home. “I was experimenting here. I could’ve been a scientist or some shit.” Luhan holds up the soju bottle and squints at it as if it’s the first time he has seen it. “I could’ve been a scientist instead of a ‘ _prissy pink fag’,_ you know? That's what they call me.”

_Stop._

“What’s the experiment?” Jongin asks, his voice low. He keeps himself to the wall, keeping a good space between the frazzled Lu and him.

“It’s a potion,” Luhan splutters. It’s not on purpose, it’s just that his lip is too swollen to really get a clear word out. His accent is showing up again, and in better days, Jongin would find it cute. Loving. In better days. “So maybe I’m a _witch,_ or a wizard. A potion full of all the soju brands!” He throws his hands up in the air, and his head falls back to show off his neck. His skin is nearly translucent, and Jongin can see the veins and love bites in trails.

“That’s not good for you,” Jongin says quietly. The lighting is awful in the dining room, and the yellowish lighting makes Luhan look like a sick patient at a hospital, the way it morphs together with alabaster skin and razor-like cheekbones. “You’re going to throw up again tomorrow, and you’ll hurt yourself.”

This breaks Luhan.

The man looks up at him angrily, and even with the shitty lighting, Jongin can see how his left eye is twitching, and his mouth forming into a twist of red lips and baring teeth. But his voice isn’t as hard or angry as his face. “When did you grow up, Jonginnie?” he asks, sitting up straighter. His shoulders are hunched together like he’s cold, and his thighs stick together. “When did you start caring about what made me sick and what is bad?”

Jongin looks at his feet. They’re bare because his socks are too wet to walk around the house with. The ends of his jeans are soaking wet too, and they rub against his ankles in the most uncomfortable way.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Jongin makes his way to the table, realizing that if he doesn’t clean it up, then it’ll stay there until tomorrow. Luhan reaches over and grips his wrist, and Jongin almost jerks back from how cold he is. “Hyung?”

“Don’t touch those,” Luhan snaps. “I’m getting my drink on.”

Jongin stares at the three empty bottles. He sees the receipt on the edge of the table, a bit soaked. “You bought two cases,” Jongin sighs. “Luhan, I’m sorry but I have to clean up.” He pries Lu’s frozen fingers off of his wrists, and he doesn’t miss the whimper that slips through the older man’s lips.

“Stop growing up,” Lu mutters, his hands resting in a slump in his lap, trying to cover up the recent bruises on his skin. Jongin wonders how they got there, and restrains himself from brushing over them. “Too fast for me. I remember _so_ long ago when you were fourteen. You were shorter than me, and you had such big eyes and sticky hands.” Luhan pulls Jongin closer to him, so that he can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“That was six years ago,” Jongin says. He remembers it as clear as day, too. Fourteen, with a cross around his neck and ballet flats that were too big on him. “Let’s go to bed, Luhan.” He pushes the wastebasket over so that it’s right under the table, and the bottles come crashing into the trash. Lu cries out, sounding more like an injured monster than anything. Jongin looks up at the ceiling, wondering if Sehun is pretending to sleep, or if he’s really knocked out.

“I’m a real smoker,” Lu blurts out, with Jongin’s hands under his arms. He always forgets how light the elder is, with the way he usually holds himself; haughty and beautiful in every way a proud person can be. Jongin freezes in his step, his grip on Luhan is gentle and not too rough. “I’m not a fake.”

Jongin scrunches up his face. “What do you mean?”

Luhan shakes his head, and the chair under him falls over. He does it on purpose. “Whatever that _Chanyeol_ said, it’s not true.” Luhan looks too desperate to be really Lu. “He’s the fake one, he’s the liar.”

“Hyung, hyung—”

“He’s just a stranger that showed up in Yeonhui,” Luhan babbles on, his voice strange. “So don’t like him too much. He’ll be gone, and I’m still here. I’ll always be here.” He pushes Jongin so hard in the chest that he stumbles backward, and watches the drunken man rub his face into his hands, and disappear into the living room.

 

♕♕♕

“Pay attention!” Joonmyun’s voice rattles in the empty studio, and they’re staring at a broken clock clapped up against the wall. It doesn’t work anymore, because Joonmyun is sick of everyone staring at the time, waiting to go. Jongin collapses to the ground in a pant, and Yixing winces with a headache.

The corps all stare at Jongin, who is battling with the little light specks in his vision. Sojin hurries over in a paced manner, her frown prominent and when her head snaps towards Joonmyun, it’s the first time that Jongin hears her speak up so loudly. “It has been more than four hours,” she says stiffly, the muscles around her eyes tensing up. She hands Jongin a water bottle and a small plastic bag of his medication. She knows now too, because Jongin told her.

“The show is closer than you realize it,” Joonmyun says grimly. There are posters and electronic advertisements for the ballet, and Joonmyun holds it close to a heart swelling of pride, that this may be his biggest ballet production. “I can’t take anything less than perfection for this.” Yixing lies down with his stomach facing up, his shirt pulled up to show off the strip of hair down his navel, and sweat in dews across his skin.

Luhan doesn’t appear in this scene. Jongin thinks he’s off doing something, maybe he’s not in the studios at all. Seulgi is in the corner with earbuds in, prepping herself for her own act. Yixing rolls over, his eyes unfocused and his tongue sticking out in the corner of his mouth.

Sojin points to him, her face firm and the circles under her eyes are accentuated by her wavering eyes. “Look at Zhang over there,” Yixing looks up curiously at his name, a scoff forming around his mouth but comes out as a cough. “He looks like he’s ready to puke. This scene has been done at least seven times and that’s just too much for them! Don’t you remember back then what happened?”

Joonmyun’s eyes flash. “That was different,” he says coldly. Each word rolls out like rocks. “Don’t you dare compare Junsu to my boys. They’re stronger than he’ll ever be!” he advances towards Sojin in an attempt to have her back up and flinch. Like she’s suppose to. Instead, she stands with her shoulders squared, and Jongin stares at the back of her.

Yixing scoots closer to Jongin, his face still sheen but there’s a ghost of a smile around his too-red mouth. They look like roses, and the verbenas under his eyes are in full bloom, even if it isn’t spring yet. “The kicked animal has teeth,” he muses, jerking his chin towards Sojin. “But you know what? It makes me laugh.” He holds his hands up to his cheeks, and an easy grin spreads fully. “It makes me blush with giddiness.”

“What?” Jongin asks warily, the weird feeling in his chest warming up.

“The hunter,” he points to Joonmyun, who has a vein popping out of his forehead. “Has traps.”

“I know them better than you do,” Joonmyun says, his voice loud and the corps are all cowering. Seulgi can’t hear anything, and that’s a good thing. “Yixing isn’t weak.” His eyes meet Yixing, who just chuckles.

“But Jongin—”

“Jongin is an exception!” Joonmyun nearly shrieks. Everything goes silent in the studio, and Jongin isn’t sure if he’s allowed to breathe. “Sure he’s weak, a fool! But you know what, he has something you never gave me, Park So Jin? He gave me emotions, that sadness that can replace all the pointes and détournés you gave me! He’s not the cavalier, he’s _mine_.” His face is red at the end, and the dress shirt is too tight on his heaving chest.

Stunned, Sojin is quiet for a few seconds. Jongin looks over at Yixing, who has the smile of Hansel and Gretel when they burnt the witch. He makes hand motions of a trap and biting sounds.

_Weak, a fool._

“That’s not true.” Jongin sounds so loud in the studio. It’s not a yell, but it’s not a whisper either. He stands up so that the barres behind him are pressed against his waist, and he can feel Yixing tugging at his ankles. Sojin glances towards him, a few loose strands hanging over her eyes. The clipboard is close to her chest, and her sneakers squeak against the floor. It’s odd, because out of all things, those worn down sneakers should be pointe shoes.

_I refuse. I refuse to be…_

Jongin walks in measured steps.

_I refuse to end up like her._

“Sojin is amazing,” he starts, and he can hear Yixing giggling at how much his voice trembles, matching the quiver in his lips. “She was the perfect Myrtha and I don’t understand. Hyung— _Joonmyun,_ I don’t understand how you can put me over her, when she had all the right steps and character.” Sojin, jaw slacked with her hollowed out eyes anywhere but at Joonmyun. “So don’t put her down. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all!”

Jongin is getting dizzy.

“Not fair?” Joonmyun asks mockingly, his head tilted. “And why isn’t it fair?”

_Because look where she is now. In sneakers and sweats instead of tights and flats._

_Because she’s tired._

_Because I’m tired._

_Because I don’t be like her._

“Because,” he starts, and the trained out thoughts in his heads sounded clearer than he is now. Seulgi is looking up at them, earbuds hanging and the corps in hushed whispers. “This isn’t right. My role, it’s not what—”

“You wanted?” Joonmyun finishes for him. He crosses his arms. “I thought we had this discussion a bit ago. I wanted you to do your homework, Jonginnie.”

Yes, Jongin thinks. The homework, dotted with heartbreak as the keyword and sent a boy off to a bar with someone who is too sad to be an adult. Sojin is shaking her head now, as if to tell Jongin to let it go, that it’s not worth it. He should shut up, yes, shut up and smile. “I thought ballet was about dance,” everything sounds too raw and too rough. “But this is too much hyung!”

“Jongin,” Sojin says cautiously, her grip on him gentle but full of warning. “It’s alright, just go take the meds and I can handle it. It’s my fault, Joonmyun-ssi.”

Jongin shakes his head. He towers over everyone, and it hits him hard. Chanyeol hovers a few centimeters above him, though, yet the man never once looked down on him. Jongin can’t bring himself to do the same. “This isn’t right,” he whispers to her. Sojin looks frazzled, frantically looking between the corps who will definitely spill to the rest of the company, and Yixing who has his hoodie over his face to hide a smile. “Joonmyun, I’m doing everything you told me to! A heartbreak, more stretches and more hours but you can’t just…you’re hurting people. It’s been four hours and…” Jongin winces, a sharp jab to his ankle has him stumbling into Sojin’s side, who barely catches him.

Joonmyun doesn’t look angry anymore. His contorted face morphs into that delicate, ageless expression. “And Alice looks through the glass,” he speaks so softly that Jongin almost swears he doesn’t hear a thing. There’s a twitch between his brows, and his smile is disgustingly fake. “Very well, Jongin. You obviously _reign_ over everything.”

He throws his hands in the air, like a surrender. Everyone knows it’s not like that, though. Jongin’s face falls, and Sojin’s grip on him loosens. “That’s not what I meant hyung.”

Joonmyun mimes a knife to the heart, and a theatrical gasp in despair. Yixing is still laughing in the back, his pitch higher and breathier. “Take a break then, King of the Wilis! I’ve overestimated you all. Who am I to think that Seoul’s ballet performers can handle four hours of practice? A mistake on my part.” He pouts, and for a moment, his smile withers.

Sojin frowns deeply. “You know that isn’t reasonable. Jongin’s ankles are _swollen_ and Yixing has to take his prescriptions as well—”

Joonmyun laughs. It sounds so shrill that it doesn’t sound like him at all. “I forgot that music boxes break, too.” He waves his hand away to dismiss, and unbuttons the first two buttons on his shirt to breathe. “Actually, it’s rather late my sweet peas. Thanks to your _Jongin,_ go home. Go home! We’ll practice tomorrow. Yes, we’ll do that. We’ll do all of that.”

He doesn’t give anyone time to think before the studio doors shut with a _slam._

Jongin collapses on the ground, and his ankles are splotchy and red. It doesn’t hurt. “I made him mad,” he whispers, realizing how many red marks are across his palms and knuckles. “Joonmyun-hyung is mad. He’s upset and I don’t know what to do—” he covers his face with unsteady hands, “he’s not—what if he... he yells at me?” Sojin is sitting behind him with a hand on his shoulder.

He can hear the corps filing out of the room, some scoffing at him when they shuffle by. He doesn’t blame them.

“You know how he is,” Seulgi grumbles, stuffing her belongings into her pink bag. It’s obviously new, and expensive. “Especially when there’s a week or two before showings. Last season for _Swan Lake,_ he forced seven hours on us.”

Jongin sniffles, wiping away at red cheeks. “That sounds awful.”

Seulgi shrugs. “It was. Luhan said something about it, and he came back with Joonmyun with a bruise collared around his lil’ neck.”

Jongin shivers. He remembers that, when Luhan just shook it off and said he had too much fun with an older woman.

“You’re lucky,” Yixing says in a singsong voice. He has a lollipop in his mouth, and Jongin wonders how many he has stuffed in his duffel bag. How many he has to substitute for meals. “You’re real lucky, lover boy.”

Jongin flinches. “I’m not lover boy,” he says meekly. He watches Seulgi trail behind Yixing towards the doors, kicking at stray water bottles on their way out.

“And I’m not garden boy,” he retorts easily, disappearing into the dimly lit halls.

Sojin sighs, and helps Jongin to his feet. “Let me get you to the physio. You really need that ankle looked at. It’s going to be a hindrance.”

Jongin shakes his head. “I only want Chanyeol looking at it,” he mutters. He wonders if Chanyeol is home, in that lovely blue house with roses in the front. He wonders if the man still gets up to water them, and if they’re as pretty as Chanyeol says they’ll be. “I’m fine.”

“You haven’t been to the physio for five days.” Sojin sounds exasperated. When isn’t she, though? “You have Jongdae, he was your doctor before him anyways.”

Jongin bites down on his tongue to keep himself from whimpering when he stands up. “Chanyeol hasn’t been in the physio in five days,” he argues. “And it’s…it’s everyone’s fault.”

Jongdae says that Chanyeol is taking a sick leave, that he isn’t feeling well enough to show up. He won’t mention a single word about whether Chanyeol is smiling enough, if he’s coming back, if everything is true or not. So Jongin stops going to the physio, and no one brings that up.

“I’m going home,” Jongin says, pushing all of his clothes into the bottom of the duffel and his medication. He hasn’t taken them yet, and maybe he will later. Sojin looks disappointed in him, just like everyone else. She ruffles up Jongin’s hair with a sad smile. “I’m sorry for the commotion I caused. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Don’t be sorry,” says Sojin. “In all my years and my ex-years, I’ve never seen someone—much less a corp member—speak up to Joonmyun like that.” She helps zip up his windbreaker, fond touches like family. “You’re more than a corp now. You’re more human than anyone in these studios. “

“Noona.”

“I’ll take care of him. It’s okay Jonginnie.”


	13. Lewis Carroll

The walk from Hongdae station to Yeonhui is different when he’s alone. As far as he is concerned, their studio was the only one explicitly dismissed for the night. There’s no Sehun or Luhan by his side, and Jongin isn’t sure what to feel.

It’s not that it’s so _hush-hush,_ with Yeonhui’s street lights lighting up soju tents and the really small midnight diners that only tourists dine at. The houses on the street are still lit because it’s a Saturday, and he can hear children’s laughter smothered by television shows.

“Hey!” a man cries out over a shot glass of watered down soju. “Jongin, that you? Where’s your roommates huh?” It’s one of the neighborhood men; the ones whose wives are off in bed, allowing them to celebrate over red faces and chicken feet.

Jongin waves back. “Just me today, Huang-ssi!” he quickens his pace before they ask him to join for a round. “Good night!”

The keys jingle around in his pockets. He’ll be home alone if he goes into the little red house, and he’ll sleep in Lu’s bed until the man comes home. It’s a secret of his, that he likes the smell of tobacco and cologne on his sheets, and the stacks of outdated fashion magazines. It’ll be nice, to wiggle in his socks and listen to the radio in bed, with _Bach_ playing instead of Sehun and Luhan’s bickering. It’s much warmer at home.

Jongin turns the other way.

It’s weird, because this street isn’t his own. The streetlights are lit up and down, and the sidewalks are littered with the neighborhood kids’ bikes and scooters, and Jongin remembers always riding on Sehun’s two-person one in the summer, because no one really has the time to teach him.

His phone is on silent, and he can pretend that everything is fine.

Jongin runs his sweaty palms down his jeans, chafing the skin until he knows it’s a blotchy red. “I’m doing the right thing,” he says under his breath, though he doesn’t have to. Yoora says there are spirits in Yeonhui because it’s quiet. Luhan never believed her, and Jongin hasn’t thought of it much. “Chanyeol must be scared.”

He thinks of him, not in the long and thin white coats or the ironed down shirts. Those always seem too big on him, even if his shoulders are broad and he’s mostly legs. Jongin feels a burn around his mouth from smiling too hard, wondering Chanyeol wears striped pajamas when he’s at home.

The blue house with the roses in the front—it’s much too dark for Jongin to really see the flowers. The lights are on, and the window is slightly ajar, just enough for him to hear a faint humming. Gathering his breath, he folds his hand into a fist and knocks on the wood.

Yoora’s hair is shorter than it was the last time Jongin had met her. It’s all tied up in braids that accentuate the Park’s ears. Her nightgown curtains around her feet, and her sleeves are all rolled up and pinned at her elbows. It’s much too big, and Jongin almost forgets that she’s the neighborhood’s clinic doctor.

Yoora blinks, a cup of what seems to be milk resting between her palms when she searches Jongin up and down until they reach his eyes. “Jongin?” she asks, voice just as warm as his cheeks. “It’s nice to see you, but why are you here?” There’s no accusatory tone to her. Just Yoora.

Jongin lets go of the breath all choked up in his throat. The duffel around his shoulders feels too heavy, and he wants to collapse right at the porch. There’s nothing in his bag. “I know it’s late but I saw the lights on and I’m sorry but I have to do something really urgent noona,” he rushes out in pants, and Yoora looks taken back. “But Chanyeol—and you’re his sister, and no one tells me these things— _I’m worried._ ”

The last one hits too close to a confession, and maybe that’s what it is.

Park Yoora rarely looks or acts seriously. Her face is always lifted by a smile or lit-up eyes. Jongin remembers that she’ll always make airplane sounds when it comes to flu shot injections, and prefers her slippers to heels. But today is an exception, with her mouth still and her eyes heavy. Her delicate hands go white around the bumps on knuckles.

“My brother,” she whispers, her voice strained. Yoora sets her glass down on the table, and steps aside for Jongin to come in. Wordlessly, she pulls out a pair of slippers. Jongin notices the pink ones and green ones, one bigger than the other. “I need you to understand—”

“I understand,” Jongin says quickly, looking towards the staircase. “Chanyeol-ssi is…”

Yoora cracks a smile. “Chanyeol-ssi? No more just Chanyeol?” she asks, resting her head on the staircase railing. Lilacs rim her eyes, and she looks like she hasn’t seen slept in days. “I think you’ll make him sad if he heard you. He takes a lot of pride in you calling him by his first name.” Jongin nods nervously, the thought of Chanyeol sending a jolt to his skin. _Goosebumps._

“Can I,” he swallows his own air. It’s a lot harder to breathe when it’s not your home, and the walls don’t have cracks in them, and everything is bright and doesn’t smell like smoke. Everything is overwhelming, everything is jarring. “Just see Chanyeol? For a little bit?”

 _I have so much to say to him,_ he thinks, _that I believe him. Or that I trust him. That I miss him, that my heart and ankles are hurting. That I read horoscopes every day, because I miss him doing that for me._

“It’s really late,” Yoora says warily, holding herself tightly. “Chanyeol has hardly left his room. I don’t know if your image of him will be ruined once you see his current state. If it isn’t already.” Jongin’s sure that Yoora hasn’t meant to say that out loud, by the raised eyebrows and dread between her eyes.

“It’s not,” and that’s a truth. “It’s not ruined.”

Yoora looks like she could use alcohol, but Jongin knows Sehun will be pissed at him if he mentions that.

“Won’t Sehunnie be worried?” she asks nervously. “How is Sehun nowadays? He hasn’t talked to me since…since…”

“He’s okay.” Jongin smiles weakly, and it’s the best he can do. “I think he misses you. A lot.” She seems to visibly relax at that, the way her small shoulders sink down and she loses the hard lines around her mouth.

That look of fleeting comfort disappears almost instantly, and she looks grim. “What about _Luhan?"_

There’s a way she says his name. It’s like the way Jongin always adds the extra lettering to Sehun’s name, because the latter finds it endearing and makes him laugh. Or how Yixing calls Lu by a Chinese name no one knows; one that makes Luhan go sour. Like how Chanyeol says his name, like it’ll melt on his tongue if he doesn’t say anything. Yoora says Luhan’s name like it’ll knife her if she dares to utter it again.

“What about Luhan?”

Yoora shakes her head, looking down at her slippered feet. “It’s all his fault,” she mutters, and it’s the first time he has ever heard her sound so dark. No, scratch that, it’s the second time. Luhan’s name had been the first. “No one will come to the clinic, Chanyeol won’t eat or leave his room, and it’s _so quiet_ in there, like he can’t talk.”

She said too much. It’s on purpose.

Something clicks again in Jongin’s thoughts, and it seems too consistent these days.

“He’s…not eating?” Jongin asks hoarsely. His grip at his sides tightens, and the material of his jeans whines into his palms. “Is he drinking water?”

_You liar Chanyeol, you made me go on a weight plan._

_Where are you?_

“I think so,” Yoora rubs at her eyes. Maybe she’s crying. Jongin won’t mention it. “His room is on the left side. I know it’s late, but Chanyeol may need you now. He hasn’t had anyone since Baekhyun—” she shuts up at that, and looks away.

Jongin racks his brain. Byun Baekhyun. Chanyeol’s only other contact in his phone other than Jongdae, Yoora, and Jongin. Byun Baekhyun lives in Hongdae, and Byun Baekhyun likes oil paint more than he likes Chanyeol.

Without another word, he nods to Yoora and scrambles up the stairs. The halls are lit by a long and thin table at the walls, with candles across it. There are no candles at his house, because Sehun thinks Luhan will burn their sweet home down with a high or alcohol. Jongin believes him. He doesn’t know where Chanyeol’s bedroom is, but he knows where the guest room is. Taking his chances and choosing the door across from the guest room, he knocks.

No answer.

Jongin coughs. “Hyung…” he starts off, voice meek. “I mean, Chanyeol. It’s me, Kim Jongin. Are you in there?” There’s rustling inside, and he takes that it is Chanyeol’s room. “I…I miss you. I miss you so much because you’re not at the physio anymore. I don’t—I don’t get to see you anymore. It’s been so long.” It’s been a week.

He doesn’t hear anything.

“Won’t you let me in?” _Please._

For a while, he thinks Chanyeol isn’t going to open the door. Sighing, Jongin slumps down to the floor so that his back is against the door. He wonders if the older man can hear him breathing through the wooden door. _I miss you,_ Jongin thinks, his hands cold as they count the minutes that he sits out in the hall.

The door opens, and Jongin yelps out when his back loses the door’s support. Steady hands reach out quickly and grip his shoulders, and for that, his back doesn’t hit the hard floor.

“You’ll get hurt.” That voice. Though void of any feelings in his words, he still manages to sounds sad. Jongin hastily gets up on his feet, everything too dark for him to clearly make out Chanyeol’s face. But his _voice,_ so deep and rich that Jongin wants to lose himself in it forever. “You promised you wouldn’t get hurt.”

“Chanyeol,” Jongin chokes out, and barrels himself against the man’s chest. The latter grunts, but doesn’t push him away. Touching Chanyeol, _being_ touched by Chanyeol feels like rubbing alcohol pooling across one’s skin. Cold without a trace. “You answered me. I missed you, I missed you hyung, I missed, _missed,_ missed you so much.” Jongin is met with the same familiar arms wrapping around his torso, hesitant but endearing.

“Go home,” Chanyeol mutters. He sounds tired, but not sleepy. “It’s too late for you here.”

Jongin shakes his head, his hair muzzling into Chanyeol’s shirt. It’ll stick up from all sides later, but that’s not an issue. “No,” he says loudly, enough for Yoora to hear. “It’s not too late. I don’t want to go home. I want to see hyung.”

Chanyeol sighs, but his arms around Jongin becomes more gentle. He smells like lavender, and Jongin relaxes completely against him.

“Don’t linger around the hallways then,” Chanyeol says softly. “The hallways are colder than the rooms.” In paced movements, he guides Jongin into his room without breaking away. He flips on a switch that turns on a light that’s still dull, but better. Jongin blinks when he pulls away from his chest, his arms still around the taller one’s waist.

The blankets are all crinkled across his bed, and strewn across are pillows and a metallic canteen on the edge. Chanyeol grimaces, and Jongin looks at him, really looks at him. He has a long cardigan that hits his ankles, and his nose is red and his skin splotchy with pink. His eyes look more worn-down than usual, and his hair is messy. Crooked glasses from sleeping sideways Jongin suppose, and his lips are so white that they look like they hurt.

Chanyeol notices him look at him, and his cheeks turn even redder. “I look awful,” he says quickly. “Sorry.”

“No apologies.” Jongin tugs on his hand. “I think you look beautiful, regardless.”

Chanyeol freezes. Is he allowed to say these things? He doesn’t know.

Chanyeol coughs into his arm, and hurries to his bed to clear off the pillows to the side and straighten out the blankets. “I’m not usually this messy, it’s just that,” he stops there. He smooths down the bed, and awkwardly guides Jongin to sit down. Jongin isn’t sure what to say, or what to do. Chanyeol collapses down beside him, trying to fix his glasses. “Everything isn’t right.”

Jongin winces. _Luhan’s fault._

They both don’t say anything. There’s space between them, and Chanyeol is too anxious to put his hand there. Jongin scoots in so that their thighs touch, their arms pressed up tightly together and shoulders are to shoulder. “Jongin—”

“Can we lie down?” Jongin asks. “I just want to spend time with you.” He buries his face into the crook of his shoulder, feeling his erratic heartbeat ease down to a slow rate. He can hear Chanyeol’s heartbeat, and he wants to rest his head on it forever. To hear, and to forever know that he’s alive.

“Okay,” Chanyeol replies, his voice throaty. “Are you sure?”

Jongin pulls them both down to the pillows, before curling into Chanyeol’s sides. “Why wouldn’t I be sure?” he frowns, tugging on each of Chanyeol’s fingers.

Chanyeol pales, and his hand over Jongin tightens, like he’s afraid. “Don’t you believe them?” he asks anxiously. “Luhan, and the ballet—”

“ _No_.”

Jongin rarely speaks so sharply. Maybe the dressing room is an exception, and his words were jagged when he was fourteen with a scream. Chanyeol, taken back by it, turns his head so that he faces him. His lips are so cracked and drained of color that Jongin wants to reach over and run his fingers across them. To comfort him.

“I trust you,” Jongin says, with no glass embedded in his words. Chanyeol is so warm, and Jongin wants to stay by his side like this for a long time. He won’t mention the dressing room thing to him. “I trust you a lot.” Chanyeol’s eyes flutter shut. Jongin likes the little fat under his eyes, the ones that makes him look younger even when they’re closed. Jongin holds his breath and reaches over to cup his cheeks.

When Chanyeol opens his eyes, he lets out a shuddering breath.

“Jongin, I don’t think you should do this,” Chanyeol says roughly, his voice too weak to mean it. “You don’t know what it means.” His own hand wraps around Jongin’s wrists, pulling it away and pushing it away.

Pushing him away.

His skin is soft to the touch. “That’s not fair,” Jongin says quietly. “That’s not fair to me hyung.”

“I—”

“I want to stay like this.” Chanyeol’s knees are brushing up against his, and Jongin’s desperate for them to intertwine legs, like how they do in those movies. Except in movies, it’s a woman and a man. _Why is it wrong?_ “I like when you hold my hands. I like it when you touch me. It’s not, it’s not sexual. It’s nice.”

Chanyeol shakes his head, mostly to himself. “But I…”

Jongin hides in Chanyeol’s neck, of lavender and heated skin. “Tell me it’s not true,” he pleads, his voice shaking against him. “That Luhan was lying. That you really didn’t kiss children in Busan. That you’re not what they said you were, and that it’s all a lie.”

_Please, God, oh please._

Chanyeol looks like he’s ready to cry. Jongin wonders if he cries a lot, or if tears don’t come as easy as laughter does. “It’s not true,” he chokes out. His eyes prick with tears, and Jongin prays to a God, _some_ God out there that Chanyeol doesn’t cry, because if he does, Jongin might just break. “It’s not true, I don’t do those things. I’m not that kind of person. _Jongin,_ please believe—,”

His lips throb with hurt when they’re pressed up against his. Kisses are peculiar to Jongin. Kissing Luhan tastes of ashes and nicotine. His teeth always mash up to his lips and leaves Jongin’s lips a cherry red. Kisses with the women in the smallest clubs taste of Cosmopolitan drinks and lipstick. Those pecks with Zitao under the statues of Angels tasted like the wine they drank at mass.

This one feels safe.

Chanyeol’s lips scrap his, but he doesn’t mind.

Jongin pulls away, cheeks flushed. Chanyeol looks shocked, but not disgusted. Jongin quickly buries his face into the folds of his hands, shaking his head frantically. “Sorry! Sorry! I should’ve asked your permission first! I didn’t mean to steal it!” He keeps thrashing his head around, feeling his neck to his head flaring up with heat. _Steal your kiss._

“Jongin,” Chanyeol starts, his own hands prying at Jongin’s. “It’s okay, don’t shake your head too much, you’ll hit me.” He manages to push Jongin’s hands down so that they’re by his side, but he squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that Jongin starts to see red and blue blurs under his eyelids.

Jongin feels a light kiss to his eyelid.

He’s afraid to open them, because Chanyeol will pull away. Instead, his hands find a way to Chanyeol’s arms, and pulls him in closer so that he can’t go far. When the warmth leaves the top of his eyelids, he flutters them open. Chanyeol is so _close,_ with his face pinned with a mole on his nose, one Jongin hasn’t seen before. It’s unfair, how gentle Chanyeol is in the flesh.

“You look so out of it,” Chanyeol chuckles against him, even if every breath breaks off too abruptly. Jongin blinks a few times, trying to focus his vision on him. He had kissed a lot of people. Most of them were stamped by Luhan’s name, and a few on Sehun’s foreheads when he was asleep. Jongin has a feeling that those don’t count, though. Except, this one felt hesitant and soft, even with both of their rough lips.

“Hyung,” Jongin murmurs, and Chanyeol pulls a blanket over the two of them, making sure Jongin is fully covered from his toes to his shoulders. It’s no wool and it won’t scratch his skin, and Jongin doesn’t have to worry about a furnace shutting off in the peak of night. “You kissed me back.”

“I—I did.”

Jongin pulls the blanket over his face, because he doesn’t have to shut his eyes or look away from Chanyeol. “Did you,” it’s inaudible. “Did you hate it?”

It’s not that he’s afraid of the answer. It’s either a yes or no. It’s more that Jongin is afraid of being _wrong_ , that everything under the blankets and men holding hands is wrong. It’s not the answer. It’s not the answer at all.

The blankets are pulled away from his face, and he feels another kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth, as if aware of the smaller boy trembling under him. “No,” Chanyeol replies, his voice low and thick. “You’ve always been special to me. Ever since you forced me to squeeze between brick buildings in Yeonhui.” Jongin laughs, remembering the pain-stricken look pasted onto Chanyeol’s face back then.

They lay there, the doors locked even if Yoora won’t come in. Jongin’s legs tucked under Chanyeol’s, and the two of them getting tangled up in blankets. Jongin rakes his hand through Chanyeol’s hair, even if the latter protested, saying his hair is matted from sleeping for days. But Jongin doesn’t mind, because Chanyeol _is here_ with him, after days and days.

“Noona says you haven’t been eating,” Jongin says, frowning. Chanyeol makes a face at him that borders on being apologetic and sorrowful. Chanyeol stops playing with the hem of Jongin’s shirt, retreating his hands into the folds of his cardigans. “You look so thin hyung.”

“I’m sorry.” Chanyeol sits up, burying his face into his arms. “I haven’t been thinking right for the past few days. I’m sorry.”

 _No apologies,_ Jongin thinks. “What about now? Are you thinking clearly now?” he asks, putting his hand on the back of Chanyeol’s neck.

The older man looks up, and he’s smiling. “I am. I am now.” He scoots in, so that Jongin’s shoulder serves as a nice headrest for him. “Thank you, Jongin. For coming over. I really needed that. I really needed you.”

Chanyeol’s room is bare. A wooden black desk sits in the corner of the room, with stacks of books on psychology and medical textbooks lined neatly against the shelf. Jongin assumes they’re from Chanyeol’s medical school days. A stark contrast of children’s books rests right next to them, and he doesn’t miss a set of Lewis Carroll books. Very few photographs are on the wall, except for a couple of oil paintings of childish colors and faces. They’re probably by that Byun Baekhyun. Clothes are stringed across a hamper, a messy attempt of throwing all of the clothes into the basket failed; results clear in the jeans and sweaters on the floor surrounding it. Chanyeol recoils, red ears glowing with embarrassment lights up, and he quickly gets to his feet.

“I’ll clean my room up, I’m awfully sorry—”

Jongin manages to grab a fistful of Chanyeol’s shirt, begging him to stay. “No, it’s okay.” Jongin shakes his head. “Just…sit here. With me hyung. Please?”

_I don’t want you to go away._

And he does stay.

“I’m really not usually this messy,” Chanyeol mutters under his breath, taking off his glasses and sitting them on the night stand. There’s a bottle of Advil and two bottles of water on the table. They’re mostly empty. “It’s just unusual circumstances.”

His last few words hang around in the air longer than the rest.

“Would you be mad at me,” Jongin starts, tugging on Chanyeol’s fingers, “if I asked you?”

“Asked me what?” He already knows.

“The story,” Jongin winces. “The one Luhan lied about. And how did he find out.”

Chanyeol’s body goes rigid. His arms around Jongin falls out of flex, and Jongin wonders if it’s a mistake to ask. The way he looks like now reminds him of how he looked in January when Yoora ushered him out of the rosy clinic. Isolated; a little too much like a lost boy to be an adult. It’s difficult for Jongin to believe that the man entangled with him is older.

“I sometimes wonder why you’d trust me,” Chanyeol says, choking up. It’s just a cough. “I’m not that trustworthy.”

Jongin rests his head on his chest. He can hear his heartbeat, though it’s soft and muffled by all the layers Chanyeol has on. “I’ve known Luhan since I was twelve, and lived with him since I was fourteen.” He traces his fingers across Chanyeol’s chest, drumming a bit until the latter falls into an ease. “I know he’s a liar. I know Lu is impulsive. I’d rather trust a stranger than Lu, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love him.”

“You love him.”

“I love everyone.”

Chanyeol sits up precipitously, his back hitting the board of his bed with such force that Jongin yelps. His hair is sticking up, and a few strands are covering his bewildered eyes. They look afraid: a kicked puppy. Jongin sits up gingerly, folding his entire body in so that he can give the other man some space.

“Hyung?” Jongin asks meekly. “Did I say something wrong?”

Chanyeol swallows and his Adam’s Apple bobs down, sweat crowning the base of his throat. “No—I mean, _yes,_ but I,” his breaths are shorter, like Minseok’s when he has one of those panic attacks. “I thought you actually -but you’re just…” he cuts himself off by turning his back on Jongin. “ _You’re confusing me._ ”

Jongin has heard those words before.

Back when Jongin had only a few years on his shoulders at a tender age of seven, and those _Todd_ attacks were without a name. _You’re confusing me,_ his other sister would say, calling him out for being the reason why they wouldn’t allow him into the only nearby public school in the neighborhood. _You’re confusing me,_ his eldest sister would say, when he came home with a pamphlet to the _Seoul Theatre Academy_ for young danseurs. _You’re confusing me,_ Zitao told him in broken Korean, when Jongin muttered under the statues of saints that he liked both boys and girls. _YOU’RE CONFUSING ME,_ he would think to himself, on nights where the furnace didn’t work and Luhan wasn’t home to touch him.

_There’s something wrong with me._

Without another word, he rests his head on Chanyeol’s back, and wraps his arms around his waist until he feels like he won’t move away from him, or push him away. He’s doing what he should’ve done—wrap his lanky seven-year-old’s arms around his sisters’ ankles, begging them to stay. Maybe he was supposed to rip those pamphlets in front of them, and stayed being the ‘ _sick kid’_ on the blocks of an old run-down town. The right thing to do was to tell Zitao in half Chinese and half Korean, that he’s right, that Jongin should only like either boys or girls. Those are things he should’ve done.

Resting his head on a shaking man’s back, and intertwining his fingers when they’re against his stomach is what he’s doing now.

“I said something wrong,” Jongin mumbles into his shirt. It smells like lavender, but the fake kind you get from soap. “I’m sorry hyung. Don’t be mad at me.”

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” Chanyeol says sadly. The muscles in his back aren’t as tensed as they were before, and Jongin wants to rest on the comfort of him forever, because nothing will hurt him then. “I just thought you kissed me because—because you…”

“I like you, hyung.”

Chanyeol breathes out, and it rattles in the stuffy bedroom.

“I raised my voice a few days ago. I raised it for you.” Jongin winces, and he bet Chanyeol can feel it in his back. “I don’t like yelling, it hurts my ears and it hurts others. But they said mean things about you. I like your smiles. And your ears, and I like it when you talk to your sister, because you look so happy and so young.”

“I’m not young, though,” Chanyeol replies, his voice sticky. “I’m so much older than you.”

“I like your voice too,” Jongin continues. It pools out of him desperately, like a broken dam in the countryside. He’s not just getting his feet wet, but he’ll drown in it, too. “And your roses in the garden. I like it when you call me sometimes, just to ask if I’m eating by the weight plan. It makes me feel like you _care,_ even if you’re just doing your job.”

“Don’t say that,” Chanyeol says sharply. “I _do_ care. It’s not just my job.”

“I…I know.”

When he turns around, he clasps his hands around Jongin’s wrists, pulling the two of them into an awkward position, where Jongin’s thighs are encased by his, and Chanyeol is raised just enough so that he’s a head taller than Jongin. The younger one looks up at him, lips parted and looking dazed.

“Chanyeol?” he asks faintly, trying to search his eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re doing—”

“Don’t say anymore,” he says, sounding hushed. “Don’t go saying any more pretty things about me. Don’t utter another compliment or a good word about me because you don’t know.”

“I,” Jongin tilts his head, in the way that Soojung always claims that he looks too much like a newborn puppy. “Okay? I don’t understand though.”

“I’m scared that you’ll understand,” Chanyeol says, each word sounding a bit more frantic than the other. “That every nice thing you said about me, that every kiss and hug you’ve given to me will go away and you’ll think that I really am…” he drops his hands from Jongin’s wrists. “What Luhan says I am.”

It hurts to breathe in here.

“But I—”

“Just go to bed,” Chanyeol says, begs. He drops his hands from Jongin’s wrists and looks dejected. “I’m not feeling - I just, _I feel confused,"_  he says weakly.

There’s a lot of things Jongin can’t understand. But he understands this one. “Okay,” he says quietly, nodding slowly to match how slow Chanyeol’s blinks are. “I’ll go home. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

“No, don’t go home.” He sounds hoarse. “It’s too late for you. I don’t want you in the streets at night. Just sleep in the guest bedroom.”

_But hyung, I want to stay with you._

“Okay.”

Jongin stands up, feeling suddenly very aware of everything. Of him kissing Chanyeol, even if it was just slight, and getting curled up in his bed under crumpled blankets. His chest swells and it feels like it’ll burn off his skin. It shouldn’t feel weird—he has done this before. Late nights spent in Luhan’s bed, with kisses too. But this, this feels different. This feels too new to him.

And he’s scared of that.

He looks at Chanyeol one more time, and he feels sorry. He’s the wrong-doer, the sinner now. But he’s not sure what he should pray for those things to go away. “Good night,” he says quietly. Part of him wants to stumble over to him in socks and hug him tightly, to ask for a small kiss again on bad lips.

“Will you be here tomorrow morning?” Chanyeol asks anxiously, rubbing his arm. “I need time to recollect my thoughts.”

Jongin nods.

He knows how to do it. Go across the hall and take the guest room again. His duffel bag is downstairs, and he’s not sure how to face Yoora. _Hello noona, I kissed your brother, and I want to kiss him again._ Instead, he just shuts the door, waiting for Chanyeol whisper a _wait,_ or _stay_ behind him. But nothing happens.

The bed in the guest room is cold alone.

♕♕♕

Some time in the witching hours, he hears the door open. Jongin freezes, gripping onto his blanket. He relaxes just as quickly as he had tensed, reminding himself that he’s not home, and that’s not Luhan. He keeps his eyes shut, wondering if it’s just Yoora checking up on him, questions resting on the tip of her tongue.

He feels soft lips linger against his cheek, and warmth pools across his face and down his neck. He opens his eyes, and sees a better groomed Chanyeol, with his hair brushed and his face looking less pale. The hallway lights illuminates his face, and he looks like that ageless faerie again, the ones Jongin reads in storybooks.

Without another word, Jongin scoots aside, and Chanyeol slides in under the covers next to him. Without hesitation, he throws his arms around Jongin like he’s a lifeline. Jongin wheezes, thrown off by how desperate Chanyeol feels right now, and how nice he fits in his arms.

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” Chanyeol whispers, his words tickling the shell of his ear. “I just wanted to see if you were sleeping well, and you were just there and I couldn’t do anything.”

“Your lips were soft,” Jongin blurts out in the dark. “They weren’t chapped.”

Chanyeol chuckles. “I cleaned myself up after you went to bed,” he admits. “I felt embarrassed. You seeing me like that. Like a mess.” Jongin pulls on him tightly, wrapping his thighs around Chanyeol’s waist.

“I like you anyways,” Jongin says happily, keeping his voice low in case Yoora wakes up. Chanyeol looks down at him and frowns, his eyes wide and bright even in the poorly lit hallway.

“You were sleeping in jeans,” Chanyeol points, sounding a little upset with himself. “Shit, I should’ve sent you off with pajamas or something.” He tugs on his waistband, and Jongin flushes red. It’s not sexual—it’s not at all. But his skin still tingles and his stomach lurches forward. “Shit, I’m terrible. I’ll be right back.” He scrambles off the bed and stumbles into his bedroom, and through the opened door, Jongin can see Chanyeol ripping open his dresser and pulling apart clothes.

Jongin giggles at the sight.

Chanyeol hurries back to the room with a shirt too big for Jongin, and striped pajama pants. “I don’t know if they’ll fit you,” he says sheepishly, handing them to him, “but I hope it’s better than sleeping in jeans. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Jongin says with a smile. He throws the blanket completely over himself, and begins to unbutton his jeans. “Hyung, don’t look? I’m uh, going to change now.”

Chanyeol’s eyes widens and he coughs violently into his arm, before nodding. “I’ll turn around.”

Sliding the jeans off his bare thighs and wiggling into the pants, they’re a bit longer than his, and the ends covers his toes. The shirt fits just nicely, even if he has to hold up the shoulders by his hand. “I’m good now,” he chirps, and Chanyeol looks back hesitantly. “Thank you for the clothes. I didn’t mean to stay the night.” _Again._

“It’s no problem,” Chanyeol folds his jeans and shirt up. “Does…does Sehun and uh, Luhan know?”

Jongin bites his lip. “I’m an adult,” he says. “I don’t need them to know where I am all the time.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Chanyeol steps outside to shut off the hallway lights. “I don’t want my sister waking up,” he says, turning on the bedroom light. He sits down next to Jongin, looking and sounding more fresh than he was before.

“What time is it?” Jongin asks, looking around for a clock.

Chanyeol looks shy. “It’s around 2 AM. I’m sorry, I should’ve let you sleep. But I couldn’t—I just wanted to see you.” Jongin feels his throat constrict, and he rests his head on Chanyeol’s shoulder, letting himself rest on him before something else goes wrong. “I couldn’t sleep, thinking you don’t know the story and believe Lu.”

“I don’t believe Lu—”

“But I’m not sure if you believe me either,” Chanyeol sighs, resting his hand on the back of Jongin’s neck. It’s the warmest there. “I could live, I mean, with the whole ballet company thinking I’m some sick freak. I can live with that. I _have_ lived with that. But you’re different. I’m scared of what you think. What you believe.”

There’s few things Jongin thinks about. He thinks about ballet, if the laxatives Luhan takes hurt him that bad, and if Sehun has his heart broken by another girl again. If Minseok is really as healthy as he claims to be, and if Soojung gets hurt by Sooyeon. Consciously, he adds another thought to the list. _Chanyeol,_ just Chanyeol.

“I believe you,” Jongin says again, firmly. His grip on Chanyeol’s shirt tightens. “Stop doubting me. Everyone doubts me. Don’t you do it too. Just tell me, and I’ll believe you, hyung. I’ll believe you.”

Chanyeol cards his hand through Jongin’s hair, his touch gentle and loving. It’s not rough or demanding. It’s endearing, and Jongin continues to melt against him.

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

Chanyeol sighs heavily, his hand still in Jongin’s hair. “I don’t know how to start. When I was little, I had parents. Kids were supposed to have parents. Kids were supposed to have parents who loved him. Kids were supposed to have parents who didn’t beat the shit out of them.”

Jongin sucks in a sharp breath.

“No, it was just me. Yoora didn’t get hurt a lot. That’s the only thing I was proud of—protecting my big sister from our loving father.” He sounds so bitter, so upset. Jongin buries his face into the crook of his neck. “I didn’t do much, actually. Think it was just my face my father didn’t like. Said my sister was pretty, my sister was smart, my sister was good enough not to get beat. My face wasn’t pretty enough to avoid his palm.”

The bedroom is so empty.

“It wasn’t—it wasn’t so bad. I played football back then, so I could’ve just passed off the bruises like medals. Medals in the field instead of the bedroom. It wasn’t so bad.” He looks away, and Jongin can feel him shaking. “I didn’t hate it so much. Yoora was popular at school, it would be obvious if there were bruises on her legs and face. I was just the little brother with no friends, so no one gives two looks if you have a cut on your lip or a bandage on your forehead.”

Jongin doesn’t realize he’s crying.

“Yoora was a lot like my mother,” Chanyeol says. His smile is awful. “Mother never laid a hand on someone, rarely raised her voice either. She was lovely, and that’s why Yoora is too. I’m kind of jealous, I wish I was more like my mom than my dad. I’m like my dad. I _am_ my dad.”

Jongin sits up, his head bumping his. Jongin narrows his eyes at him, his bottom lip quivering. “Don’t say that,” Jongin says harshly. “You’re not like your father, Chanyeol. You’re not violent. You don’t beat people.”

Chanyeol looks at him, and there’s something in his eyes that makes the younger boy want to hide in his lips. “I got into a lot of fights at school,” his words are laced with brittle laughter. “I punched a kid so hard that he fell to the ground. Concussion and all.” His knuckles are white as paste, and Jongin wants to kiss them until they’re better. “I threw a kid to the ground and he broke three teeth when he talked about Yoora in bed. Parents didn’t sue, but I had to move schools.”

“Hyung.”

“I didn’t major in psychology,” he lets go of Jongin, and tries to conceal his shaky hands. “But it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Childhood trauma, yeah, a sob story. And it got to me, because I had let it get to me. They called it intermittent explosive disorder. I called it my father’s doing.”

Jongin shivers. The room isn’t cold, and the heating works in this house.

“I never hit a girl. I made them cry, but I never hit a girl,” Chanyeol wipes something away from his eye. He calls it dust. “I punched boys and adults who threw me off. I was a freak. So your friend Luhan was partially right in that.” His nose is red, and he can’t lie anymore and say he isn’t crying. “I went to Canada to study from high school up until I graduated from medical school. My parents told everyone it was because I was a bright kid. That was a lie, really. I was there for therapy.”

Jongin frantically grabs a handful of tissues from the nightstand, and stuffs them in Chanyeol’s hands. It seems to take the pain away from his face, and he cracks the smallest and saddest of smiles. “Please don’t cry,” Jongin sniffles. “You shouldn’t be the one crying.”

“I know.” Chanyeol uses the tissues to wipe away at Jongin’s eyes. “But there was a doctor that called my issue the _Lewis Carroll Syndrome,_ sounds like pseudo-science—I know. But I took it.” Jongin finds it terribly funny; Alice in Wonderland Syndrome and Lewis Carroll Syndrome, he wonders if this is all just fun and games.

But it’s not.

“He said the depressants I was on wasn’t good for an aspiring doctor,” Chanyeol sounds so miserable, “so he set me up for a more _social_ treatment. Told me to be more around children. I was scared—afraid that I might hurt one of them. He told me that I would be okay.”

Jongin knows that there’s stuff hiding under name tags. Like _Sehun,_ ballerino. Orphan. Pities Kim Jongin. Or _Luhan,_ soloist. Smoke lover. Doesn’t smile. Sad.

 _Chanyeol,_ doctor. A lost child in adult’s words. Broken. Misunderstood.

“And I was…I was okay.” Chanyeol lets out a shuttering breath, one that racks up the entire bedroom, yet does nothing at all. “Children are sinless, and nothing wrong to them. Adults are terrible, mindless, and careless. My doctor told me to go back to Korea. Go be a doctor there. Said he had a nephew, Kyungsoo, who was kind and gentle and needed a personal physician.” He rubs his face into his hands, which hasn’t stopped shaking. “It wasn’t normal. Adults shouldn’t have ulterior motives like that.”

“But you’re different,” Jongin protests. In his mind, bad people are the old men who grope Luhan in the shadiest bars of Incheon. Bad people are unshaven, and has too many bottles of alcohol to their name and wallet. Bad people are the ones who leaves Sehun crying and Luhan with a cut branded in soft flesh. “You’re not a bad person. Child-friends aren’t weird.” _I’m a child. I feel that too._

Chanyeol smiles ruefully. “I’m twenty-nine,” he says, and flinches like it hurts. “I’m thirty this year, and I can’t get away with things like that. People don’t like different. One step out of the perfect chalked up line they made and you’re labeled as an outcast. And those kinds of labels don’t peel off like wet clothes, they stay with you for a long time.” It doesn’t sound like Chanyeol’s talking about himself, a patient maybe.

“Why did you become a doctor then? If your Canadian doctor said you had the… Lew—aroll thing?” English sounds weird on Jongin’s tongue, and it leaves a weird feeling in his mouth. This seems to lighten Chanyeol up, who corrects him in smooth English. “You could’ve been a daycare guy. Or a nanny. Or a dad.” It’s weird picturing Chanyeol as a nanny, the type who wear aprons around their waist and a baby bottle in the front pocket.

“A dad, huh?” Chanyeol looks lost in thoughts. He has too many. “It would’ve been nice. If I were a dad with a kid. Problem is that I’m not interested in women like that. Not enough to have a child like that.” His cheeks are pink like peaches. Jongin finds it beautiful.

“I wish boys could be moms,” Jongin says mournfully.

Chanyeol nudges him playfully. “Don’t change the subject, I’m going to lose my courage. It’s all played up anyways.”

 _Played up courage,_ he thinks, _funny._

“Yoora told me that too. Don’t be a doctor she said. Don’t go pretending to be someone you’re not, she said. Told me to work with children, for my own health and safety. But I _couldn’t._ It’s not like that. I was scared, _am scared._ That one day I’ll depend on children too much to make me smile and feel safe, and I’ll be ripped away from my own world and forced into a tie and wine glass in my hand. And that I’ll collapse. That I’ll just be that asshole who smashed the wine glass against a wall and used the tie to choke someone.”

Jongin can’t help but gasp. It’s nearly impossible for him to imagine Chanyeol, kind and gentle Chanyeol, use his hands on someone else.

“You probably don’t understand,” Chanyeol says quietly, his eyes fluttering shut. His cheekbones aren’t as sharp and chiseled as Yixing’s or Minseok’s, but they’re natural and pleasant. “It’s hard to. I still… I still don’t understand it, either.”

“But you’ve never hurt me,” Jongin says, hope sparking up like a match in his words. “I’m not a child, but you’ve never hurt me. I don’t believe it. I understand it, but I don’t believe it.”

Chanyeol seems at a lost of words.

“You’re a doctor. A physio member at the ballet theatre. You’re not a terrible man, you’re kind. You’re too generous.”

Chanyeol rubs at his eyes. The sleep is getting to him, and he’s fighting it. “But you’re…you’re _different._ ” Jongin stops figuring out more reasons to convince Chanyeol. “You don’t lie, or manipulate people. You never speak in two sentences that contradicts one another. You don’t get any ulterior motives. You just _dance,_ and smile, and tell me I’m a good person even if both Hell and Heaven knows I don’t belong in neither of them. You tell me I’m a good person, because that’s just who you are.”

Jongin feels the corners of his eyes restraining from getting too wide and dry.

“You’re so translucent and so _pure_ , but you’re not a child to me.” Chanyeol shakes too much. Maybe he has a cold. “If you were a child to me, I wouldn’t want to kiss you. I wouldn’t want to hold you at night, and I wouldn’t want to keep you away from that home of yours and keep you with me forever. I wouldn’t tell you my secrets, and I wouldn’t cry in front of you.”

“Chanyeol?”

“Don’t you get it?” Chanyeol’s voice is getting breathier and heavier. He sounds worn out, like a used up toy. “You’re so childlike but you’re _not a child,_ and that scares me. It makes me feel like I’m a sick man for being so infatuated with someone _so young,_ and so sweet and fragile. You make me scared. You make me so fucking scared.”

Jongin wants to say _I’m sorry_ , because that’s what he’s supposed to do. But it doesn’t seem appropriate right now.

“I’m twenty,” Jongin points out, his voice cracking. “I have a job. I can drink, too. I can’t drive, but I can learn. That makes me an adult, right? You can treat me like one. I’m not your medical treatment hyung, and I don’t belong in a daycare. I don’t belong anywhere.”

That’s what he’s supposed to say. That’s what he wants to say.

“I’m not a pedophile,” Chanyeol spits out the word violently. “It’s not like that. I don’t know how Luhan found out about my medical treatment but it’s not like that at all—”

Jongin leans in quickly, his thighs on top of Chanyeol’s when he pushes his lips up against his, shutting him up. _It’s bold,_ he knows. He should be pulling back and apologizing; apologize for being so straightforward, be sorry for making a move. But he isn’t, because Chanyeol’s lips are soft against his this time, and the frantic aura around the man dissolves into a delicate touch.

There’s no tongue unlike with Luhan, because Jongin has never mentioned it to the Chinese man, but it makes him feel awful after and uncomfortable. Chanyeol understands that, and keeps his lips parted only slightly.

“I’m not a child,” Jongin says firmly, when they pull away and their lips are cold in the air between them. “So you can kiss me freely.”

Chanyeol holds his gaze for awhile. Jongin sees a lot of things.

Instead, Chanyeol wraps his long and thick arms around him, and pulls him in. It’s a repeat of two weeks ago in Joonmyun’s apartment complex, and it’s a replay of a few hours ago, when Jongin stumbled into his bedroom begging to see him. His legs are buckled around Jongin’s skinny waist, where his shirt is rising up a bit so his sun kissed tan shows through. He used to be self-conscious of his skin; especially around Sehun and Luhan who seemed like the love children of archangels. But here, he feels beautiful.

_I feel so beautiful._

They spend the rest of the earliest morning hours like that, until the sun peeks through and they start to regret the lack of sleep. The blanket is sprawled across the ground because it got too hot, and Chanyeol races his hand across the flat stomach of Jongin under his shirt, and the younger one’s hands tucked in Chanyeol’s pockets. Jongin had asked him the sleepy hours what Lewis Carroll was like, and Chanyeol replied uneasily that he was a tragic man who took photographs of children in the nude, and loved a little girl Alice Little.

Jongin shivered at that.

Chanyeol had asked him around 4 AM how the ballet was going, and Jongin kept his mouth shut about his swollen ankle. “It’s good,” he tells him. “I want you to be there though.”

Chanyeol clears his throat. “I…that, I _don't know.”_

“What did Joonmyun say about the leave from work?”

“He suggested it. Said he didn’t want any more drama while his dancers were on tension. Told me to come back whenever I felt like I can handle it.”

“Can you? Handle it, I mean.”

“I don’t know.”

Jongin wants to sleep, but he thinks the other man will leave him when his eyes are shut. “I don’t want to go the ballet today,” he whines. _I don’t want to see Luhan,_ it translate. “Can I stay here?”

Chanyeol kisses his hairline. Intimate. “I don’t think Joonmyun would be happy, especially with the ballet so soon.” He folds the blanket over Jongin’s eyes a bit, so that the early morning sun doesn’t hurt his eyes. “I’ll take you there. I don’t think I should be back, but I’ll try. I’ll try to handle it.”

Jongin wants to scream loud enough that it’ll shatter the glass in the dressing rooms, until everyone can hear him, until everyone stops talking about Chanyeol.

“Okay,” he nods groggily. Chanyeol mutters in his ear about getting to the kitchen for a quick meal before Yoora wakes up and start to hammer questions into their thoughts. Jongin nod hastily, thinking of a morning Yoora with a notepad of scribbled down questions.

Chanyeol holds his hand all the way down the stairs, and Jongin’s wrist tingles at the contact.

They’re tip-toeing, socks creaking the wood as Chanyeol flips on a switch.

“You assholes.”

Oh.

Yoora is sitting there, slumped across her seat in a dress ready for work. Her eyes are narrowed into slits, especially noticeable with her makeup amping up her glare. She stands up with a huff, holding the today’s newspaper in a roll and holds it up. Chanyeol yelps when she starts whacking it over his head, getting on the tips of her toes to do so.

“I stayed up,” she whacks even harder, “all damn night, waiting for Jongin to come out with an answer or you to come out and _apologize_ to your sister for being a shut-in for a week! Look at my puffy eyes! I’m bloated right now, because you stressed me out and made me make a bowl of ramyun!”

“I didn’t make you eat anything— _ow!_ ” Chanyeol covers his head and looks over at Jongin with a dazed expression. “Please stop hitting me noona!”

“And you!” Yoora points at Jongin with the newspaper, and he recoils back into the lamp, nearly knocking it off. Her eyes screams crazy, and the thin line of her lip makes Jongin whimper. “You were my spy Jongin! I wanted you to tell me the physical and mental state of my brother but then you spend the whole night with him? I’m—I’m betrayed! God damn it, you two drive me so insane.” She collapse into the chair, exhausted. “You’re a shitty brother.”

“I’m sorry,” Chanyeol says genuinely, straightening out his hair and looking over at Jongin, who appears to be a bit traumatized. “And don’t yell, you’re going to freak Jongin out.”

Yoora gapes at both of them. “Freak _Jongin out?_ I’m the out freaked out!” She points an accusing finger at Chanyeol. “You lil’ shit don't just get to waltz out of your bedroom looking fresh and good after days of being a disaster!”

Jongin hides behind Chanyeol and covers up a shudder. “Yoora,” he sighs. “I’m fine. Stop yelling, I’m not dead. I’m okay. Jongin’s okay. It’s not like we died or something in the night.”

Yoora squints. She’s beautiful, just as timeless and delicate like her brother. Jongin can tell why Sehun has fallen for someone so much older than him. “You’re nearly thirty and I have to still be your big sister,” she huffs out, but doesn’t look so angry anymore. Her face softens when she looks over at Jongin. “Thank you, Jonginnie.” She’s thanking him for several reasons, and it’s hard to pinpoint which he should read into.

Jongin has picked up that Yoora cooks very little, which is why this is a surprise, with side dishes and plates set out as if she had an hour decked in the kitchen. Yoora stiffly gestures them to sit down, and Chanyeol wraps his hand around Jongin’s. She notices, and her lips loses the thready lining. Chanyeol pulls the two of them to the table, secured and calloused palms caressing his.

Chanyeol has a way of making him feel so small.

“I made you two breakfast,” she makes a wave of her hand, her voice like glass. “I’ll be heading over to the clinic. I want your help around there if you decide to stay home and mope again.”

“Wait,” Chanyeol clears his throat. “Have breakfast with us? I haven’t talked to you in awhile.”

Yoora’s eyes slides over to Jongin’s to make contact. He nods, and gives one of his sweet smiles that he knows she likes. Giving in, she sets down her bag and shoes and shuffles over in the pinkest of slippers, and fits herself comfortably in the seat across from the two.

Chanyeol fills all three of their bowls with rice, folding a layer of dried seaweed across the bowl for them. Yoora clutches her glass, looking out of place even in her own home. Jongin picks at his shirt, which is Chanyeol’s—the latter had insisted earlier he wear something new and comfortable. Yoora takes an eye at this, and her face is unreadable.

“Did you spent the night together?” she asks nonchalantly, after clearing her throat. Chanyeol keeps silent, and Jongin coughs into his sleeves.

“Yes,” Chanyeol answers for both of them, before Jongin can understand. “You already know how I am.”

Yoora hesitates, but nods. Jongin audibly sighs one of relief, the burden of Chanyeol’s only family left to yell and prick at his sexuality; the thought of it terrifies him. “I know, I’ve known since you were little.” A bit of color returns to her face. “I’m just surprised finding out Jongin’s preferences too. I guess I am a matchmaker after all.”

Jongin blinks. “You’re not mad?”

“No. I’m not.”

He tries his best to hold Yoora’s gaze and smile back, but it hurts. The scars from his knees to his ankles tingle with a memory taped to them, reminding him of stained-glass windows and the pastor telling him God would give him worse. _Don’t get a Todd, not in front of Yoora. Not in front of Chanyeol._ He holds his smile.

He holds it well.

Jongin eats as much as he could make himself, because Chanyeol looks a lot brighter when Yoora happily fills up his second bowl. Under the table, Chanyeol pats his knee as if to say _good job,_ giving it a squeeze and sending a jolt of emotions up his skin. Yoora smiles, her lipstick smudging off as she eats but her eyes are at peace.

“I’ll wash the dishes,” she says, swatting away her brother’s wrist. “You can go off and drive Jongin to the company. You’re not going to work together?”

Chanyeol shakes his head. “I think—I think I need a few more days.” Yoora nods, and balances the three emptied bowls on top of each other. “I’ll be in the clinic. You must have been taking a lot of the workload.” He smiles ruefully.

Yoora shrugs, and the plates clatter loudly in the sink. “Not enough clients for a lot workload. I tell myself it’s just because flu season is over but,” she bites her lip, making eye contact with Jongin. “They’ve been going to the clinics in Hongdae. Word got around.”

_Luhan._

She shakes her head briskly, as if catching the dismay on Jongin’s face. “Don’t worry, I’m sure things will clear up.” Her grin is weak, but it’s reassuring. “Don’t you two worry about a thing. Let your big sister handle it.” She pats a balled up fist to her chest, her shoulders and posture straight.

 _Rose Head Clinic,_ Jongin thinks back to almost just a year ago when it was just _Rose Clinic,_ with poorly painted roses on it that was already losing their color. He remembers back in the coffee shop in January, when Sehun muttered through his mocha that Yoora-ssi’s younger brother paid for the remodeling, which attracted a lot of curiosity.

Yoora struggled a lot back then—the whole neighborhood knew—when it came to finance. She was just as happy as today, but her formalities of bows and apologies when she had to take out a loan to pay her monthly fees just to keep going. Luhan, even him, kept a few wons aside from his checks to ‘ _keep the woman from losing her Yeonhui touch’,_ or whatever that meant. Some of the older couples who were around long enough to remember her as a teenager always fussed about her refusing money from them or her brother.

Something in Jongin breaks, thinking that Yoora might have to go back to that lifestyle. Chanyeol taps him on the shoulder, breaking him away from his trance. “Are you alright?” he asks, worry fleeting from his face when Jongin nods. Yoora is already upstairs getting ready for another day of empty clinic work.

“Are you sure you want to drive me?” Jongin asks, when Chanyeol gets on his knees to undo the knot of his shoelaces. Jongin has his duffel bag swung over his shoulder from last night, and a jacket too flimsy for the weather. “I can just take the subway, there might be traffic if people are getting to work.”

Chanyeol shakes his head, and stuffs his pocket with his wallet and keys. “I _want_ to drive you, Jongin.” He ruffles up his hair, and Jongin laughs quietly into his touch. It’s one of his favorite things now; Chanyeol touching his hair. “I would love to drive you everyday from now on, instead of you taking the subway.”

It has always been a thing for the three of them, him, Sehun, and Luhan, to take the subway every morning and night. For Luhan to stretch for attention on the moving cart, and Jongin clapping along with the rest of the people when Luhan does a spin.

“You’re always taking the subway,” Jongin points out. “When you had a car.”

Chanyeol opens the door for him first. “I just wanted to see a familiar face every morning.” Jongin squeezes himself into the car, his bag sitting on top of his lap. Chanyeol shakes his head and takes it from him, setting it in the back. “It seems uncomfortable, I mean. It’s not a light bag.” Jongin grins, and buckles up.

He notices the photograph of Chanyeol and Kyungsoo again, their frozen smiles still cheery and innocent. Jongin reaches out for a closer look, and Chanyeol watches him in silence.

“Is this the nephew of that doctor?” Jongin asks, careful with the corners.

He nods awkwardly. “Yeah. That photo is a little old. I haven’t seen the kid in a while.” It sounds too sad. “I think he’s eleven now.”

Jongin puts the photo back in its original spot. “Why?” People are leaving their houses, clad in flimsy ties and business suits. A few of them stare at their car, and Jongin’s a liar if he says he doesn’t see the way Chanyeol flinches.

“He lives in Busan. Plus, I don’t think I can face him.” Chanyeol rolls down the window, letting the wind undo the kinks in his hair. He looks free. “Kyungsoo called me _elf brother,_ and liked to tug on my ears on his bad days. He’s a good kid, even if the other kids found his glare intimating. I don’t want to disappoint him now. He needs a good role model.”

Jongin leans over to peck him on the cheek. It’s a bold move, and it throws the man off when he grips on the steering wheel. “You’re a good role model,” Jongin protests. Chanyeol’s face reddens, and his ears pinks up like peaches and twitches. “I want to meet Kyungsoo.” _I want to thank him, for keeping you happy._

“I think you’d get along with Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol says lightly, slowly recovering from Jongin’s abrupt actions. “You’re both carefree and sweet.” Jongin’s cheeks flushed, being compared to an eleven-year-old makes him feel odd.

Driving into the more heavy part of Seoul is different when it’s not underground. Jongin is used to the dark tunnels and graffiti in the stations, with the street performers in the afternoons and evenings. But in the car, with Chanyeol humming to an old song Jongin hasn’t heard of, and the wind beating their ears—it’s almost peaceful.

“What are we?” Jongin asks when Chanyeol stopped humming. His chest constricts when the hyung clears his throat, and the seat belt across his torso feels too tight for him to breathe. When Chanyeol doesn’t answer, he turns frantic. “I mean, not like that! Just I don’t know if there’s names for what we do. L-like what Luhan calls his people. He calls them—he calls them lovers. And Sehun calls noona his lady.”

“I don’t know.”

The windows rolls up, and the wind is no longer in company with them. Jongin keeps his head hanging, his bottom lip sticking out in an accidental pout. His palms are sweaty, so he folds them up so Chanyeol doesn’t decide to grab and hold them.

“What do you,” Chanyeol rubs the nape of his neck stiffly. “Think we are?”

Sehun always says that there’s way to tell emotions in someone’s actions. Like the way Minseok bites on his fingernails, it’s because he’s apprehensive. Or how Ryeowook tugs on his shirt so low that his collar bones are in full exhibit, it’s ‘cause he’s confident. When Luhan laughs, it’s because he’s sad.

Jongin keeps his eyes on Chanyeol’s hands, which shake a bit with the whitest of knuckles.

“Luhan calls them lovers,” Jongin says sadly. “And they always leave him. And when they leave him, he fills the bathtub up with cold water and gets drunk in it with his beer. Sehun said it was because they were his lovers. So I don’t—I don’t want to be a lover.”

Chanyeol’s eyes flickers as they pull into the parking lot of the theatre.

“I won’t call you lover then,” he says, his voice clearer than his vision. They’re both tired, the lack of sleep hitting them both like boulders. “I won’t leave you either.”

“Then what?” Jongin asks, and a yawn slips through his words. “What am I?”

Chanyeol unbuckles his seatbelt, and reaches over to undo Jongin’s. The two of them slow down, like in the movies where everything eases into motion and the lens flare. Instead of scripts and action lines though, Chanyeol just presses his mouth to Jongin’s hairline, the sound of buckles and the seat belt whipping back into place behind the two.

“We can figure that out.”

It’s early, and Jongin can easily recognize Joonmyun and Siwon’s cars, already parked. Most of the dancers went by bus or subway, except for Seulgi who’s claustrophobic. Jongin stands outside of the car, unsure what to do with his arms while Chanyeol goes to retrieve his bag.

“So you won’t be coming in?” Jongin asks dejectedly, adjusting the straps of his duffel. Chanyeol shakes his head, pushing his glasses up further his nose. The wind has messed up his hair, and he looks so boyish without the cut-creased white shirts and long coats.

“Sorry,” says Chanyeol. “Not everyone understands. And I can’t blame them for that.” He scratches the back of his head shyly, stuffing his other hand into his pockets. A gear in Jongin’s thoughts rusts, and it goes to the _Locker Room_ bar, with the muted lights and diluted beer. Something about public touching and sexualities.

Jongin keeps his hands to himself, and Chanyeol walks him to the front of the building.

“I should go,” Chanyeol says in a regretful voice. Jongin nods, holding out his ID card to swipe. “Are your ankles okay? Have you been going to Jongdae for check-ups?”

He bites his lip hard. “Yeah,” Jongin lies. “Jongdae has been taking care of me.”

Chanyeol looses up at that, his smile less forced and his eyes bright. “Okay. I’ll see…I’ll see you soon then. If you want to.”

Jongin feels his heart tug. “I want to.” He reaches out, as if to trace his hands over the veins on his wrists. Instead, they fall. _Public._ “I’ll see you later then. Bye, hyung.”

His steps are louder when they’re the only ones he hears, and he passes the fake _David_ statue in the main floor, where the marble floors makes his sneakers squeak against them. He turns around, and Chanyeol is already out of sight at the doors. Hurrying to the dressing rooms, he takes out his phone which has been on silent all night.

A blur of notifications blinks onto his phone screen, the majority of them from Luhan. Shutting his eyes, he quickens his pace to the dressing rooms. His sneakers squeals loudly in the empty halls, and his breathing too loud to his ears. Bursting into the dressing rooms, he doesn’t expect anyone to be this early. A twiggy-looking boy with disheveled hair sits on the dresser, the blow dryer and brushes scattered all around him. He looks a little disconcerted, whereas Yixing, with a lollipop stuck between his teeth, seems unfazed.

“Oh…” Jongin tries to calm his breathing down by limiting himself, resting against the now shut door. Yixing turns his head, his disinterested eyes flashing with delight. “Was I interrupting something, hyung—?’

“No, no.” Yixing pulls the lollipop out of his mouth, the sound lewd and sticky. The skinny boy flinches, his cheekbones high and sharp and his lips with little color. “We got a new transfer. A corps, I think he’s meant for your replacement.”

Jongin freezes. “Replacement?”

Yixing shrugs, his shoulders barely falls high enough before slumping. “Not the roles, _silly._ Corps, I guess Joonmyun really loves you and made you a higher rank.” Yixing nudges the new boy with his foot. The boy swallows, his eyes wide and turns to Jongin with new eyes. “Doesn’t he remind you of someone?”

“No.” Safe answer.

Yixing’s mouth is dyed a cherry red from the candy. They seem like roses, and Garden Boy seems to be in full bloom this spring. “What’s your name again? That,” he points a gaunt finger at Jongin, “Jongin. Say hello to him.”

“Hello.” The boy’s words are soft. “I’m C-Chittaphon.” He turns rather flustered, his eyes averting Jongin’s and his mouth parting. “But everyone can call me Ten.”

“Hi Ten,” replies Jongin, his voice just as gentle to match the boy who seems too wobbly on the dresser. “Welcome to the Seoul Theatre.”

“He reminded me of Luhan first,” Yixing pipes up, unwrapping a new lollipop. It’s a blue looking one, hoping to turn his lips violet. “I had the luxury of knowing Lulu back at the purest age of fifteen. Skinny, always smiley, and the brightest of eyes that twinkled like a fuckin’ deer.”

Jongin remembers the pictures in the theatre with teen Lu in them. They don’t have any at home.

“But now that I look at it,” his lips flush to a purple color with the sweets. “ _Ten_ here reminds me of you. Skinny, smiley, bright eyes, and always shaking.”

Jongin grips on his bag.

“Just food for thought,” Yixing waves his hand, standing up and pushing the chair away. Ten flinches when the chair hits the dresser, and he brings his feet up as if they’ll get the blow. “Have fun at the theatre, Ten. You’ll fit in as well as Jongin did.” He winks, and his tuft of black hair disappears when the dressing room doors shut.

 _That’s a lie,_ Jongin thinks coldly. _You won’t fit in, not if you’re skinny, smiley, happy, and shake in your walk._ His hands burns with the straps chafing his skin. _That’s a lie,_ because the skinny aren’t skinny enough, the happiness only belonged to the instructors, and you had to crawl—not walk. His stomach lurches out, unaware that Ten is still eying him uneasily.

“Welcome to the theatre,” Jongin forces out with a smile. Compulsive lying. “I hope you find it just as homey as your previous one.”

“Thank you,” Ten says, relaxing. “If it isn’t too much to ask, c-can you open my locker? I don’t understand the lock system…”

Jongin nods, finding that his locker is right next to Sehun’s. Maybe Sehun will be his hero too, shielding him away from the skinny-haters, the anti-smiles, and those who will beat him down to his knees. Maybe Sehun will be the hero, because Jongin can’t.

Leaving Ten alone to sort his things, Jongin throws himself hastily into an emptied shower, turning the water onto the hottest setting so it’ll scorch his skin. Water gets into his eyes and mouth, and he splutters and coughs out in spats and weak attempts. He thinks back to the notifications, of three voice mails, several texts and at least seven phone calls. There was a text from Sehun, who somehow knew Jongin was with Chanyeol, saying: _I’ll keep him in the house. He won’t bother you._

And Sehun had stuck true to his words.

A surge of emotions barrels itself against Jongin, leaving him breathless. _Forgive Lu,_ a tinny and raw voice rambles on in his head. _You know him, he’s a liar but he loves you. He kisses you goodnight and makes you feel good._ Jongin bites down on his lip, and wraps his arms around himself like protection. A more calm and collected voice cries out, _but Chanyeol, he kisses you and entangles his hands in yours. Luhan wronged Chanyeol._

Luhan wronged Chanyeol.

Jongin balls his hand up in a sloppy fist and throws himself against the shell of the shower, covering his mouth with his fist. Biting his own skin, he keeps himself from bawling. _Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm—_

The wall encased around him with water pushes itself up against him in a painful manner, jolting Jongin out of his misery. The walls are closing in, with the shower water filling up his lungs and water, and his chest racked with redness. _Oh no,_ he thinks, _oh, no, no, no no no no no._ His head throbs, his skull threatening to crack and let all his thoughts seep out in a steady red.

Throwing the shower door open, it makes a loud, resonating sound that can be heard by anyone in the dressing rooms and showers. Panting, and spitting out water, he keeps his eyes shut. His hands scrape across the floor in an attempt to grab his towel and cover himself, with the shower still beating on behind him.

An icy hand reaches out to touch his shoulder, and he swats it away in impulse. “Sorry!” the same, foreigner’s voice squeaks, and Jongin hears footsteps. “Are you okay?” Ten asks, sounding alarmed. Jongin bites down on his lip and nods, trying to breathe.

“Don’t be a silly fool, Ten.” Yixing. Jongin can faintly hear him crouch down beside him, unzipping Jongin’s bag. “Which compartment is it?” he asks evenly.

“Second one,” Jongin rasps. “The smallest one.”

More unzipping. “Open your eyes, you know it’s not real.” Jongin clutches onto his towel, shaking his head. “Open your eyes Jongin, or you can’t take your medication.”

He pries his eyes open, blinking through salty tears. In his blurred vision, he sees a bewildered Ten and a passive Yixing, who holds up a water bottle and a baggy full of the medication Jongin was suppose to take earlier that morning. He takes it with wet and clumsy hands, taking the blue one firsts because it’s easier to go by color. He downs it with water, and does it again with the white pills.

“Is he okay—”

“Welcome to the Seoul Theatre,” Yixing says sarcastically. “You should go change Ten, instead of wandering around the showers.”

“I’m sorry!”

This time, it’s not Jongin saying it. The throbbing in his temple seems to fade, but the room still feels too small and compact.

“How long does it usually take?” Yixing asks. “I mean, for it to go away, I mean.”

Jongin realizes that he’s completely naked, except for the towel draped over him. In a rash thought, he grabs another towel to cover himself completely. Yixing finds this hilarious. “It can range from ten minutes to an hour,” Jongin admits. “Thank you for helping me, hyung. Giving me my meds.”

He dismisses it without much interest. “I owed Lu something, I’ll consider this his due.” He stands up, leaving the water bottle in the young one’s hands. “One time thing kid. One time thing.”

Jongin is left alone in the shower rooms.


	14. Dante's Hell

Jongin’s tights are sticky and unbearable against his skin. It had taken a lot longer than usual to fit into his dance belt, especially with his hands all scrapped up from his fall in the shower. _I’ll consider this his due,_ Yixing’s words ring too loudly in his thoughts, like a church bell. On his way to the studio, he catches someone from the corner of his sight.

Soojung halts in her steps, her hair all tangled and frizzy. Sooyeon brushes past her with a sneer when she sees Jongin, and Soojung bites her inner cheek, her brows slanted. Jongin falters, planting his feet down. Soojung waves an airy wave, before hopping over to him.

“Jongin!” she chirps. “No Sehun today? Where’s Lu?”

He looks away. “I came alone. Someone drove me here.”

Soojung tilts her head, scrunching up her nose. “Really? Who?”

The halls are exceptionally cold, making it feel like winter all over again. “Chanyeol-ssi, Chanyeol drove me.” Jongin fumbles with the strings of his jacket, feeling Soojung’s gaze on him flare with perplexity. “Don’t mention that to anyone. It’s best not to.”

Soojung, though bewildered, nods stiffly. “Are you…upset with Sehun and Luhan?” she asks cautiously, her words laced with double meaning. _What’s wrong with you,_ is what she means.

“Upset, no. I’m not upset with them.” Jongin cracks one of the worst smiles a man could do. The bag on his shoulder feels heavy, and his chest can feel the welts he got from the fall. “I’m fine. I’m fine, Soojung.”

“Sehun has been seeming a little bit off…” she hesitates, her lip pressing into a flat line. “I’m just a little worried. You two are best friends.”

Jongin’s tongue feels like a sponge in his mouth, and it’s getting hard to breathe in here. He just wants to go to the studio, and sweat it off with plies and _pas de chats_ until he collapses against wooden barres. “You’re Sehun’s friend,” he bites out. “You should worry about him. Not me—not me at all.”

“Jongin!”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he rips the doors open to the _Fonteyn_ studio, where he sags against the mirrors, the grating sound of glass against his damp back makes for an awful noise. _What’s wrong with me,_ he thinks mournfully, masking his face with his bare palms. It shouldn’t be like this. It should be seven in the morning, with the three of them skipping out on breakfast and coffee in replacement for Advil and jello. It should be the three of them, greeting Soojung and Minseok for the daily gossip and Luhan off with Yixing doing God knows what.

But he’s alone today.

“Stretches,” he whispers to no one in particular. “I should be doing stretches.” The ballet. _Giselle_ is in a matter of weeks, and he has to make Sehun and Chanyeol proud.

His ankles cry out to him, and he dismisses it by wrapping a bandage dabbed with oil on it, hoping it’ll numb out the icky feeling in his skin and bones. He heaves himself onto the barres, and lets his muscles do the work while his thoughts play in Wonderland.

 

♕♕♕

“Jongin.”

He looks up, hair whipping up and slicked with sweat. He grimaces when a bit gets into his eyes, and the shower earlier that morning had gone to waste. His vision is blurred, but he can make out a tall and scrawny figure, with poor posture and the familiar messy black hair.

“Sehun,” he breathes out, relieved. _Normality._ “I can explain.” He pulls his hair back, collapsing to his knees and rummages through his belongings for a towel to wipe his face away.

“No need,” Sehun replies nonchalantly, voice crisped. It’s poised. It’s fake, and only Jongin can tell. He looks tidy and clean-cut, aside from the unruly hair that can’t be tamed by a comb. His smile is dry, but his eyes are young and gentle. “We’re the same age, I shouldn’t really be the one you tell your whereabouts to.”

“Do you really think that?”

Sehun balks, but nods with a smile. “Yeah. I really do.” He digs through his too-big pockets and pulls out Jongin’s medication. Sehun seems rather sheepish. “I called Yoora and she said you were over, so I knew you were in good hands. I didn’t know if you had your meds so I just, I brought them. Just in case.”

He seems skinnier these days, but Jongin tells himself it’s just because of the shirt he’s wearing; hugging all the wrong places like his ribs and his shoulders. _I should make him eat,_ Jongin thinks, _I should cook. Be a family._ A little thought pops him and tells him to invite Chanyeol, but that’s not such a good idea.

“Thank you,” Jongin beams, not wanting to tell him about the Todd attack earlier, and Yixing. “You’re here early. Why?” Translate: _are you with Luhan?_

Sehun scoffs, strolling over so he can sit down with Jongin. He seems different as of late, or maybe Jongin just hasn’t been paying attention. “Speak for yourself. I ran into Soojung, and she said she saw you _two hours ago._ She also said you seemed a little…off-centered.” He tugs on his ear, before leaning over to give Jongin a side hug. Familiar. “You want to talk about that? You feeling okay?”

Jongin squirms. “Everything is changing,” he say dolefully. “This isn’t a good year. Maybe we should’ve listened to Siwon, and went off to Jeju to pray to the ghosts.”

“There’s no such things as ghosts.”

“What makes you say that?”

Sehun lets his head fall back. “Because if there’s ghosts, I wouldn’t be so lonely.” His grin is wicked. “And I’d see hot babes from the Joseon area.”

“That’s weird, Sehunnie.” Laughter erupts between them, and Jongin forgets the aches in his bones and ankles. Sehun rests his head on Jongin’s shoulder, his breath stirring his thin t-shirt. “Where’s Luhan?” Jongin asks, running swirls across Sehun’s neck. He wonders if Chanyeol will let him do that; let fingers glide across the skin between his jaw and collarbone.

“He drank a lot,” Sehun says dryly. “He screamed a lot last night when we came home and, well, you weren’t there. I told him you went off with a friend, and he asked _who?_ But I didn’t say anything after.” He rolls his neck. “I think he knew you were with Chanyeol. He just didn’t want to come to the house. Too scared.”

Jongin stays quiet.

“How’s Yoora these days?” Sehun asks anxiously. “Is she fine?”

Jongin shrugs, unsure whether to tell him or not. “She’s still laughing. But her clinic isn’t so well. The news…it went around quicker than you’d think it would.” Sehun curls his fingers and digs into his palm, and Jongin has to unravel his hand so there won’t be marks. “She says that she’s okay. That she’s okay if her brother’s okay.”

Sehun sits upright, body going rigid. “Is Chanyeol okay?”

Jongin’s heart warms up, and his ears pinks. He thinks of the older man’s smile, and the slope of his nose where his glasses rests on. “He says he’s fine. He’ll be fine.” Jongin folds in closer, bringing his knees up to his chest. “I’m worried for him, Sehun-ah.”

“He’s really important to you, huh?” Sehun asks, though it’s not a question. He runs his hand through Jongin’s damp hair, and the difference between Sehun’s hands and Chanyeol’s is jarring. Sehun’s touch is rough and brother-like. Chanyeol’s comes with tentative fingers that disentangles every curl and knot in Jongin’s hair. Loving.

“It’s not true, you know.” Jongin hides in his knees. “It’s not true.”

“I know. I believe you. I believe him.”

“Luhan—Luhan did this, right? He did Chanyeol and Yoora wrong?” _He did me wrong._

Sehun pulls his hand away. “You know how he is. He’s an asshole, and more to himself than others.” Sehun sounds a little bit begrudging. “I think he feels pretty shitty, especially when you didn’t come home yesterday. He’s not a fool, that Luhan. And you know it more than I do.”

Jongin tries so hard not to lash out. “I know,” he coughs out. “But he still—”

“He didn’t want to hurt you,” Sehun admits in the worst of silence. “More so to himself.”

“He hurt Chanyeol,” Jongin whimpers. “You don’t know how he looked last night—his face was awful, and he looked so sick like he could’ve died any moment. And,” _Luhan did that._

Sehun shoots him a sympathetic glance. “What are you going to do?”

Jongin shakes his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Sehun shoots up, his legs brushing past Jongin’s back. “Well, whatever you do,” he says, stretching out his arms, “I’m with you. You know that right? I’ve got your back.” _I’ve got your back,_ Jongin feels all fuzzy inside, thinking back to when Sehun was shorter than him, and his face was yet sculpted by his years. _I’ve got you,_ he had said back then, when they went into the auditions together from the feeder school of the Academy.

The two of them link arms, even if one of them feels rather stiff.

“Have you eaten yet?” Sehun asks, when they push past the doors of the Fonteyn studios, and into a dark and empty corridor.

Jongin nods. “I had breakfast there.” Sehun knows what _there_ means. “I think noona misses you. Yoora-ssi.”

Sehun looks away, turning rather sheepish. “I don’t feel like I could face either Chanyeol or Yoora,” he admits ruefully. “I’m too connected to Luhan.” Regret.

There's something

“I am too, though,” Jongin points out softly.

Sehun shrugs halfheartedly, nudging his sharp hip into Jongin’s. “You’re different. You can do no wrong to anyone, that’s different.”

The two of them walk rather sluggishly in the hallways, shoulders only bumping into each other slightly. There’s that familiar crease between his brows, that speaks of want. Jongin loosens up his hands from his pockets, and reaches out to grab a firm grasp on Sehun’s.

“I know you want to ask something,” Jongin says. “You can ask. You can just ask.”

Sehun looks hesitant. “It’s just—” his hand is sweaty in Jongin’s, but he doesn’t mind. “Do you, uh, like Chanyeol?”

“I like Chanyeol.”

“No, I mean, like, _like like._ Like you want to be with him.” Sehun struggles with his words, his eyes darting back and forth between their hands and Jongin’s face. “Like, you want to hold hands with him. Sort of what we’re doing—but not quite, because this is more brotherly.”

Jongin cocks his head, sticking out his bottom lip. “Brotherly?”

Sehun nods, relaxing against him. “Yeah, brotherly. You know, we’re brotherly. But with Chanyeol, do you feel like you want to be with him all the time? Kiss him, I guess?” Sehun is anxious, and even Jongin can tell.

Jongin blinks, not really sure why his best friend is all fidgety. “I did kiss Chanyeol.” He did, and he remembers the two different kisses last night. He remembers how warm and dry Chanyeol’s lips were the first time, from lack of care. The second time was soft and gentle, and Chanyeol held him like he adored him. Jongin’s chest flares up with heat, and he wonders if his cheeks are hot too.

Sehun’s eyes widens, but it quickly deflates. “You did, huh?” he asks. Though the bewilderment is still on his face, his voice is leveled and friendly. “I always knew, I guess. I just thought when you did things with Luhan, it was just on his own end.” The way he says Luhan, makes Jongin’s stomach churn with nauseas.

“I like Chanyeol, a lot.” Jongin’s mouth feels funny saying it. He wants to say it again, but louder; in the streets of Seoul when the lights are flashing neon red and blue. “He makes me _happy._ ”

“And you should be happy.”

“Are you upset?”

The shock on Sehun’s face amplifies. “Why would I be upset?”

Jongin just shrugs, taking his hand away. He wants Chanyeol beside him, even if they can’t do much except talk like doctor to patient, doctor to dancer. “Chanyeol says that being gay, it…it makes people think differently about you. He says it’s hard. He says it makes you feel bad, even if it shouldn’t.” He turns to Sehun so quickly, that the other stumbles. “But I’m not gay. I like girls and boys. I just like Chanyeol more.”

Jongin thinks that for a moment, Sehun isn’t going to say anything. A grin spreads across the taller boy’s face though, cat-like and sweet. Sehun reaches over to ruffle up his hair again. “Chanyeol-sexual,” he says jokingly. “I mean, I don’t blame you. The guy is pretty handsome and fit for a near-thirty-year-old. Too bad I don’t swing that way. I do swing for his sister, though.”

Jongin crinkles up his nose. “Do you think it’s bad?” he asks in a hushed voice. “That he’s twenty-nine? Chanyeol-ah says he’s afraid. Afraid people will think bad of me, that I’m younger—”

“I’m with Yoora,” Sehun says flatly. “She has like what, eleven years on me? People don’t think bad of me, or at least, I don’t let them. You just got to act strong, give no shit and no one will think bad of you. They won’t be allowed to.”

He nods, though he doesn’t really understand. The two of them walk a little faster, because it’s much too hot in the hallway. Laughter settles between them just as usually, and it feels like it did before everything happened with Luhan, Yoora, and Chanyeol. Like those early January mornings before Jongin went from nineteen to twenty. Like at dawn, when the two of them staggered into the shower, with Sehun’s hand holding onto his for support.

“How’s your Todd these days?” Sehun asks cautiously as they make a right. “You haven’t mentioned anything lately. Are they still just as bad? Or have they gone away?” There’s a little bit of hope in his voice at the last question.

Jongin shakes his head. “I still have Todd. I don’t know when it’s going away.” The doctors Jongin has been seeing says it’ll go away soon, before he turns twenty-five.

He has heard about people, those with Todd just like him. Who have stuck in their thirties and forties. When he mentioned it to his doctors, they just dismissed it with a crinkled smile. “ _Those people just haven’t grown up. Todd is a childhood thing. I believe in you, Jongin. You can grow up._ ”

“It’s getting better, though,” Jongin chirps happily. “It’s not an everyday thing anymore. It’s only when I get really stressed, then it happens. It’s better. It’s really better.”

“I’m glad. You don’t deserve that kind of thing.”

Jongin opens his mouth to say something more, when they both halt in their steps. Joonmyun looks up from the sudden stop, his impassive face morphing into one of glee. His sweatpants stop right at the ankle to meet some fancy dress shoes, and his satin-like shirt is the same jarring contrast to the waistband of his pants.

“Good morning, you two.” He smiles, baring all his teeth. There’s a coffee cup in his hand and a clipboard in the other. The cup is empty. “It’s always nice to see the sweetest boys of Seoul Theatre together. Are you ready for the ballet soon?” he asks, eyes flickering over to Jongin.

Jongin nods stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

Joonmyun likes that answer. “And you, Sehun?” he asks, and his question is layered. “Are _you_ ready?”

Sehun narrows his eyes into slits, but his voice is gentle and airy. “Of course I am,” he says with a tight smile. “Corps.”

Joonmyun makes a wave of his hand. “Yes, corps. That.” He takes a long sip of his coffee, his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down as he drinks. When he pulls away, his upper lip is coated in coffee. “Well, I’m putting a lot on the line for _Giselle,_ so I expect you two to do the same. Get to practice, Jongin. Sojin is waiting for you.”

Jongin bites his lips but says no more, just holds his duffel bag close to his chest and waves goodbye to Sehun. The latter makes a move to follow him as well, but Joonmyun stops him short by grabbing on his sleeve.

“Ah, not so fast Sehun.” Joonmyun grins at Jongin, nudging him to go on. “I want you to come with me. We have practice to do.”

Sehun wiggles in his grasp, his face so angry that it startles Jongin. “No, I’m going to corps to practice—”

“Listen to me, boy.” Joonmyun yanks him back and Jongin wants to grab Sehun and hurry off. “You have _practice._ Practice to do.”

“Sehunnie,” Jongin starts, but the dejected look on Sehun blinks with a small smile.

Sehun shakes his head. “You go ahead. Director Joonmyun wants me. I’ll catch you later at lunch break.”

Something in Jongin makes his body not his own, and he finds himself walking to the studio where Sojin is waiting, and leaving Sehun behind.

 

 

♕♕♕

He doesn’t expect Yixing and Seulgi to be there, too. Sojin is sitting on the piano bench, looking tired as usual. The hope of getting through the doors without getting noticed dies quickly when Seulgi’s head jerks up. The usual glare to her elf-like face isn’t there.

Sojin notices him before Yixing does, and scrambles to her feet, barely grabbing her notebook and laptop before hurrying over to Jongin. “You’re here,” she says, sighing out of relief. There’s a bruise on her collarbone, and when she catches Jongin looking at it she hastily covers it up with her jacket. “I just want to go over some finishings with you.”

“There’s a bruise,” Jongin points out, his voice meek. Sojin, seeming fluster, zips up her jacket. “Did he—?”

Sojin lowers her voice, and urges Jongin to do the same. Both Yixing and Seulgi’s eyes are on them, and Jongin can feel it pricking his skin. “No,” she says, but it sounds more like begging. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t mention it. It’s no big deal.”

_My fault._

When she catches the look on his face, her exhaustion between her eyes fades into a soft joy. She reaches up and gives him a pat on the cheek, and Jongin faintly remembers one of his sisters squeezing his cheeks just like this when he was little. “You’re a good kid,” she says, hugging the laptop and notes close to her chest. “Don’t you fret over small things like this, okay? I’m all good.”

The tension dissolves between them when Yixing stands up and starts walking towards the two of them, his chest sunken and his shoulders structureless. Sojin turns around and frowns.

“We have group practice today and tomorrow,” Yixing says lazily. “Tomorrow is with everybody.”

Sojin nods, her mouth a thin line. “Thank you, Yixing.”

Yixing abruptly turns to Jongin. “Today is just as important though.” He leans in, so close that Jongin can see the unshaven parts under his lips, and the smallest of scars right between his nose and cheek. “So where’s that Luhan?”

“I don’t know.”

Yixing smiles. It’s shit. “You came with him, right?” he asks, voice laced with an unsettling amusement. “Like you always do? You, Sehun, and Lu?”

Sojin scoffs. “Zhang, you should go to your trainer. I think Donghae is waiting for you.”

Yixing shrugs her off. His lips are a bright red and glazed, like tulips on rain days. His eyes are just as sleepy and careless, but they make Jongin uncomfortable. “I just want to know where Lu is.” He cocks his head, and Jongin can see in the back Seulgi shoving earbuds into her ears aggressively, seemingly agitated. “Luhan-ah and I are very, very close. I just want to know where my gardener is, that’s all.”

“I said I don’t know where Luhan is.”

“No honorifics?” Yixing asks, but he already knows. “So you didn’t come to the theatre with him?”

Jongin digs his nails into his thighs. “I wasn’t even home,” he says with a bite, startling even himself. Yixing blinks, but returns to his daze. “You can ask Sehun, or call Lu. You have his number.”

Yixing thinks for a while, exaggerating with his index finger resting against his wrinkled forehead. His eyes opens in a flash, lashes fluttering so rapidly that makes him wary. “So it _is_ true. You did sleep over his place,” he muses. “Ah, what a shame. I knew you hung out with bad people and all, them druggies, food-haters, and hippies. But didn’t think you’d add _children-lovers_ to the list.” He frowns, accentuating his fleshy lips and the cut on his cupid’s bow.

Jongin gasps, as if someone had thrown a punch to his gut. _Yixing,_ he thought. The man who rummaged through his bag for him to get his medication. _No, no, no, Yixing is a good guy. He cares for Lu and us. Yixing wouldn’t hurt me—_ “That’s enough, Yixing,” a voice not his rings through the room. It’s Sojin, her usually dejected voice strings out hard. “You can’t violate staffs and dancers’ privacies, it’s against the rules.”

Yixing still has his eyes on Jongin, which are lit up like a child at a carnival. “I didn’t know we hired pedophiles,” he says gleefully. “It’s wonderful enough we have a sicko for a director but a _doctor,_ too? We’re a circus!” he yells out happily, throwing his arms in the air. Jongin can’t hear anything, and his blurry vision focuses on the blue veins that vines across Yixing’s arms, and how bony his wrists are.

It’s not even a moment later when that bony wrist is snatched midair by a hand much bigger than Yixing’s. The Chinese man’s face twists in fleeting pain, and Jongin hasn’t realized he’s this strong. That wrists could feel so fragile in his grasp. Chanyeol’s wrists were strong and always carried a watch on his left one. Sehun’s was pale and papery, and this one feels like Luhan’s, like paper mache.

Sojin looks torn apart, and she pulls on Jongin desperately. “Let him go, Jongin.” Her hair is falling out of its hold, and Seulgi has turned her back on the entire scene, covering her ears with her hands. “It’s not worth it, Jongin. He’s not the only one talking about this. Let him go.”

Jongin lets go.

Yixing stumbles back, clutching his wrist that is now splotched with lavenders and roses. His eyes are wide and streaked with shock, and his sweatshirt slips and exposes his bare and shivering shoulders.

“Yixing!” Sojin cries out, hurrying over. Distress is painted across her tired skin as she reaches out for his wrist. He pulls away immediately with a hiss. “Zhang Yixing, stop being a child and stop picking fights already!” Sojin is yelling, and it sounds shrill and forced. Seulgi is facing the corner. Jongin is shaking.

“My bad,” Yixing rasps. There’s still that clown-like joy on his face between twisted agony. “We have _two_ freaks!” He throws his head back and laughs, each other an octave higher until it sounds like he’s screaming. He is screaming.

“Yixing,” Jongin starts, his voice muffled with everything. It’s muddled with Chanyeol’s sobs from the other night, and the scattered text messages from Lu. It’s ripped apart with Yixing’s bruises, and the way Seulgi is covering her entire face in the dustiest corner in the studio. “I didn’t mean—”

“Garden boy bruises easily!” he sings out loudly, and there’s tears streaking his face. His wrist is cradled close to his chest, and it’s jerking around like a seizure. Bruises of all types blooms across his skin and kisses his palms. They look like a flower bed. “Isn’t that why they call me? I’m a walking fuckin’ rose patch!”

Wrong. They look like the fenced in garden that Chanyeol has at home.

“Hyung I didn’t mean to,” Jongin stammers. He looks down at his hands. He’s not strong, he’s not strong at all. The muscles in his arms only built to carry ballerinas across the stage. _So why?_ “Are you okay? Yixing, I didn’t mean it!”

“You’ve meant it all along,” Yixing says, sounding giddy. He’s hiding his wrist now. “Sojin, I’m taking a five. Tell Donghae I’m going out for some air.”

“Yixing!” Sojin snaps, throwing her clipboard down. “Don’t be petty. Don’t act like you’re special.”

Yixing flinches, and Jongin is the only one who notices. _I hurt him, I hurt Yixing really bad. I’m crazy, why did I do that? Why did I dO THAT? WHy dID I dO thAT?_

“I am special,” he replies easily after recomposing himself. He walks out the door, still laughing to himself.

Seulgi drops her hands from her ears, her shoulders all hunched up like she’s hiding herself. Sojin looks overwhelmed and pale in the face.

“Jongin.”

“I hurt him.”

“No you didn’t,” Sojin sighs. She sounds just exhausted. Tired of this place, tired of him. “Trust me, you didn’t.”

“Yes I did!” Jongin half-screams. _Chanyeol, I want you here._ “You saw t-the bruises! I didn’t know that—I could do that, but then —I did—I’m just,” he folds his hands together, still trembling.

Seulgi stands up, and when she does so, the two of them stare at her. Jongin shrinks back, knowing that the girl never liked him. Thinks that he’s just Lu’s little freak; the one that fucked her over. “You didn’t,” she says, earbuds hanging off by her ear. She looks petrified, and who can blame her? A witness to a maniac with bruises and a crying boy. “He’s just like that.”

“But I hurt him,” Jongin whispers.

Sojin smiles dryly. “It’s just a show. He’s a performer. You know how he got that nickname? It was when I was still a prima dancer here.”

Seulgi slumps down on the piano bench. “I should’ve gone to the Singapore Theatre,” she mutters. “This shithole isn’t worth it.”

Sojin ignores her. “Yixing bruises easily, he can bump into a table and look like he just got out of a fight. Some skin thing of his.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, and looks over her shoulder anxiously, as if waiting for Joonmyun to burst in. “He used that perk once to get some staff member fired. Said that the dance instructor beat him, when really…” she looks over at Seulgi, as if waiting for her to finish.

Seulgi throws her head to the side, resting it on the piano keys. It makes an ugly noise. “I was there. He was busy throwing himself against the barres while laughing. An hour later the dance instructor was sued.” She shivers and makes a face. “Don’t worry about him. Yixing’s scary, but he’s just a garden boy.”

Jongin shakes his head. “Yixing wouldn’t do that, Yixing is a good person.” He frowns, furiously wiping away his sticky cheeks from his tears. “If that’s so, then why did you look away?”

Seulgi grimaces, and turns her head away. The piano makes a more disturbing noise. “I didn’t want to be a witness,” she says quietly. “In case he tried to do that to you, too.” She buried her hands into her face. Her nails are painted a delicate color of pink, and there’s a small blemish where her wedding ring should have been.

“Sorry,” Sojin says in the softest of voices. “About what Yixing said concerning your friend. Chanyeol, right? The tall man who stopped us in the hall a few weeks ago?” she asks, a weary grin spreading across her face. “He seems like a good guy. Rumors are awful, but don’t go hurting yourself for him.”

Seulgi stuffs her earbuds back in, and makes her way to the door. “I guess we’re moving practice then, Sojin?” she asks, her voice flat. “You can do the explaining to Joonmyun then. I don’t want to be the one to tell him the issues with Garden boy and Lover boy over here.”

Sojin recoils when the doors slam shut. “I’ll go tell Joonmyun,” Jongin says quickly, remembering the mark on her collarbone.

“No, it’s alright. I’m your instructor, I should be the one to mention it.” Sojin gives him a pat. “Why don’t you go take a breather and practice on your own? I’ll meet up with you later. And stay clear of the other corps members. You saw how Yixing reacted to those rumors, and the corps are gossip feeders.” She grimaces.

“You don’t believe them?” Jongin asks, sounding strained. “Chanyeol isn’t that kind of person.”

“I don’t know Chanyeol personally,” she admits. “But I believe you. And you believe in only good things.”

Sojin gives him one more sisterly pat on the head, one that required her going on her toes. “I’ll handle Joonmyun, you go and take a breather. And don’t run into Yixing, I don’t think he’s feeling too well.”

 

♕♕♕

“Jongin?”

He likes hearing the other man’s voice on the phone. It’s crisp and velvety. Jongin sighs and relaxes immediately into the phone, sinking onto the floor with his legs all curled up against him. “Hyung,” he whispers, cupping the phone. It’s loud outside because it’s lunchtime. He can hear the hoard of corps members filing out of the nearby studios, heading out for a quick meal. Jongin is snuggled in a storage room, his phone pressed to his ear. “Everything is horrible.”

He hears Chanyeol clear his throat. “Did you run into Lu?” he asks, sounding defeated. “This is really all my fault, I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

Jongin decides not to mention Yixing and the incident. “Not yet. I think he’s being held back by his practice. I haven’t seen him all day.”

“Can you come home?” Chanyeol asks in a low voice. _Home,_ Jongin thinks. He wonders what home means to Chanyeol, whether it’s the little red house that reeks of liquor and smoke, or with him, where the roses are in near full-bloom and lavender-filled hugs. “You sound stressed out. Please come home.”

He can’t say that he wants to, that even if it’s new to him he wants to curl up against Chanyeol. “I have to practice. The show is at the end of April.” He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut. “And hyung?”

“Yes, Jongin?”

“What do you mean…what do you mean by home?”

Chanyeol laughs into the phone. He sounds less sick, and warmth pools into Jongin’s chest. “I don’t know. Wherever you’re happiest, I want you there.”

Jongin giggles, and all the tension in his muscles loosens up. “You’re a funny hyung.”

“I want to be there for you. It’s hard, huh?” Chanyeol asks, his cheerful words taking a hard turn. “I’m not there, so they’re taking it out on you.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Jongin says, hugging himself to stay warm. “I’m just glad I can do something for you. You don’t have to pretend to be strong hyung. I can be strong for you.”

“Thank you, Jongin. Thank you.”

For a while, Jongin just listens to the other man hum gently, a foreign song that buzzes around his ear. The storage room’s lights flicker, with the beaded string swaying back and forth. It’s not so lonely in here though, because there’s life in the phone with Chanyeol breathing.

He rests his hand on his stomach as Chanyeol continues to hum. He has gotten a bit more weight on him, all intentional. His insides churn though, when he rests his fingers against where his ribs should be. They’re not as protruding or sharp as they were, and he can’t point them out in pride anymore. He thinks of Luhan, the King of Ribs with his skin stretched over bones.

Jongin starts to feel sick.

“Why are you so quiet?” Chanyeol asks, snapping Jongin out of his thoughts. “Do you have something on your mind?”

He shrugs, even though the older man can’t see him. “Just thinking, hyung. Just thinking.”

Jongin hears a smile in Chanyeol’s voice. “About what?”

“Everything.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. No apologies.”

Jongin takes a look at his phone. He has half an hour left before lunch ends, and before he has to run around the building to find either Sojin or Sehun.

“Do you think things will be okay for you?” Jongin asks, running his fingers across the storage boxes. Some of them are labeled ‘PROPS’ or ‘FITTING MEASUREMENTS’. “This is all my fault. Maybe if I didn’t upset Lu then maybe he wouldn’t have spread those things about you.” He buries his face into his shirt. It’s all scratchy, but he doesn’t mind.

“I’m a big boy,” Chanyeol says gently. “I can live with rumors, because I know people like Yoora and you believe me. I can live like that, even with that Luhan guy doesn’t want me to live like that.”

“I’m a big boy, too.”

Chanyeol chuckles. “You are. We’re both big boys. I promise I can take care of you, I really can.” The cheeriness to him starts to waver, and becomes more worrisome. “I promise, that when things dies down we can try. We can really try to do things like dates and dinner.”

“I’d love that. I like that a lot!” Jongin says happily, forgetting that he’s in a storage room where the light bulb is nearly fried. “Sehun says he goes on dates with Yoora a lot. That he dresses up nice and makes me gel his hair. He says Yoora likes those things, when he dresses nicely.”

“I’ll dress up nicely for you, Jongin. I’ll take you on dates like the kind Sehun takes my sister to. Dinners at Namsan and shopping at Myeongdong. I want—I want to do that for you.”

Jongin thinks he sounds sad, and it breaks him a little.

“Can we go on a date?” Jongin asks in awe. He never went to Namsan. Sure, he passed it a few times, but Luhan hates heights and Sehun is always too tired. His sisters could’ve taken him when he was younger, but he doesn’t really remember anything before the age of eleven. “I want to go on a date. They sound fun.”

Chanyeol makes an odd sound. “Jongin,” he starts off, seemingly thrown off. “I…yes. We’ll go on a date.”

Jongin perks up, and sits up straighter. “Can we have a date on my off day?” he asks excitedly. “I want to have dinner with you! When I watched this American sit-com, they did dinners. Can we do that? Can we do dinners?”

He doesn’t mention that it was a woman and man, and that the woman was beautiful with her fair skin and pink lips. _Can we do that? Can I do that with a boy, hyung? Can we really do that?_ He doesn’t mention that everyone stared at them with adoration at a fancy restaurant, and he definitely won’t ask if that’s okay. That if it’s okay that Jongin isn’t a girl.

“We can do that.” There’s a smile in Chanyeol’s voice again. “I’d love that.”

They both say goodbye, and Jongin hurries out of the storage room which is getting stuffy. Hastily shoving his feet into his dance flats, he throws on a sweatshirt as he makes his way through the hallways. A few stray dancers who didn’t go to lunch stares at him, lips thinned into a line. Ryeowook is one of them, with his usually delicate face all stormy and glowering.

“Oh, look at you,” Ryeowook coos. The girl next to him shushes him, slapping his arm. “Don’t shush me Yeri, I just think it’s quite cute how _Jongin_ over here got ranked up higher.”

The other dancers looked away at the phones. Yeri looks embarrassed, but is still standing by Ryeowook’s side. Jongin bites his lower lip, and he knows it’ll be chapped tomorrow morning.

“What do you mean?” Jongin asks nervously. There’s no Sehun, no Minseok and not even Luhan around. He wonders if Luhan would help him still.

Ryeowook shrugs. His eyes are narrowed and full of spite. “We overheard Yixing talking to Lu. Said that you’re now considered a _soloist._ Don’t you find that just dandy? Aren’t you happy?” he asks, each word dripping with sarcasm. “I don’t believe it. I _can’t._ Why is it fair that a sick little boy that defends pedophiles gets a higher salary than us? Right, Yeri?”

Ryeowook nudges Yeri, who just sighs and clutches her pointe shoes closer to her chest.

“I’m not sick,” Jongin says slowly, punctuating each word with its own breath. “And I don’t defend pedophiles. Chanyeol-ssi isn’t—”

Ryeowook snorts. “You got the entire ballet turning all on you. I heard even Yixing lashed out on you. _Zhang Yixing,_ the lil’ drug lover who gives no shits turned on you. Now that’s saying something.”

Jongin tightens his hold on his phone. _Just walk, Jongin. Just keep walking and go back to the dressing rooms._ “You’re lying,” he bites out. It comes out as a snap. “You’re a liar just like everyone!”

_Just walk, Jongin._

_Just keep walking and go back to the dressing rooms._

_Just walk, Jong—_ “You need to feed on stories after stories,” Jongin rambles on, his face red. “You’re supposed to be my sunbae! My hyung, too, and you’re here in the dark halls whining about my position and Chanyeol, who you don’t even know! I’m sick of it! But I’m not a sick boy, I’m not crazy, and you just feed on whatever Luhan throws at you! You take his poison so well Ryeowook!”

Ryeowook has his hand around Jongin’s neck.

“You shut the fuck up!” he seethes, and Yeri screams. The other ballet dancers in the halls all rush to pry Ryeowook off of Jongin, who is too busy trying to shove Ryeowook off to really cry out. “You think you know Luhan all that well? You think just because he kissed you a few fuckin’ times and you live with him, you think you know him? What right, Jongin, what _fucking right do you have,_ to talk to me like that? What right do you have to say you know Luhan and his dirty ass secrets, better than me?”

One of the dancers, Hansol, rips Ryeowook off of him. The man staggers back, and from neck to face he is a blooming red of roses. “Fuck, Ryeo, you want Joonmyun to beat our asses?” Hansol hisses, disregarding honorifics just to yell at him. “Leave him alone, he can’t do harm!”

Ryeowook shoulders him away, and Yeri is rushing from end to end trying to call for another dancer, maybe someone stronger. Hansol continues yelling at him, grabbing him by the shirt back. Jongin wheezes, feeling for his neck. It’s not suppose to be like this. Yixing wasn’t supposed to lash out at him, and Ryeowook wasn’t supposed to scream and choke him like this. It’s not supposed to be like this.

“I hated you ever since Luhan took you in, you fuckin’ brat!” Ryeowook spits in Jongin’s face. He lets him. “Ever since then Luhan has been screwing around, just ‘cause he got two teens under his wing. What the fuck was he thinking, I thought, him being a shit like that thinking he can take in two kids? You changed him, Jongin, you made him this theatre’s worst secret ever!”

Jongin can see the veins throbbing around Ryeowook’s neck. His usual delicate expression melts to one of a livid man. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he cries out, holding his neck. He never knew Ryeowook has such a grip like that, enough to choke a man. “I didn’t do anything, Luhan is family!”

“Seoul Theatre of Arts turned into Dante’s Hell!” Ryeowook rasps out. He nearly has lost his voice, but he’s still going at it. Hansol is restraining him back, looking blue in the face. Yeri is sobbing, hiding behind Hansol. “You did it! Sehun didn’t do it, I know he didn’t! Luhan became this theatre’s worst treasure ever! _You fucked him up so hard_.” He’s more crying than screaming. Jongin thinks he’s crying too.

_It’s not supposed to be like this._

At some point, Hansol manages to drag Ryeowook away. A small crowd of dancers had gathered somewhere between Jongin being choked and Ryeowook thrashing around. The theatre Jongin has loved for years seems so unfamiliar. His head throbs with pain as he stumbles around, trying to make room to move. He wants to go home.

But he’s not sure where home is anymore.

“Excuse me…” he mutters, trying to move through the crowd. There’s yelling, the most distant ones are from Ryeowook. “I need…I need to get through…”

“Jongin has finally lost it!”

“What do you mean? It’s Ryeowook who tried to choke him.”

“Hey, Jongin! You’re bleeding a little bit, oh my—”

“Joonmyun is going to be pissed…”

“…First the pedophiles and now fights. We don’t need more news outlets on us!”

Jongin finds it hard to breathe. Gasping for air in the crowd, he’s shoved and pushed. “Please let me…” he pleads, pulling away from touchy hands. “I need to go home. I want to go see Chan—”

The crowd isn’t the one letting him through, nor are they opening a pathway for him. A small but firm hand latches itself onto Jongin’s wrist, nails digging into his skin. He whimpers, but the hand only tightens and pulls him closer. His neck is burning from Ryeowook’s hands earlier, and he just _wants to go home._

“Stop struggling, you piece of shit,” Luhan snarls, and Jongin blinks furiously. His image is hazy, but Jongin can make out the dark curls that rests on Lu’s head, and the bruises and cuts along his arm that could almost be passed off as tattoos, permanent. Whispers and shrilled laughter caves the two of them in, and Jongin can see Luhan shouldering through the crowd.

It parts like the red sea.

Though Lu is smaller than Jongin is, his strength resides in copious amounts. He jerks Jongin forward with such force that the younger boy winces and writhes in pain. “Hyung,” he pants, and Luhan pushes him down so he’s sprawled across the floor in an unkempt manner. “Hyung, what are you doing?”

The two of them are in the dressing rooms. Luhan whirls around at a trembling boy. “Get out,” he snarls. “Get out and give me the damn keys.” Lu slams the door shut, and the framed photographs rattle with it. Ulanova. Taglioni. Yoshia, all the ballerinos trembling on the wall.

Luhan forces himself up. He’s not bodily injured, but he cowers under the dressing room tables. Luhan looks _infuriated._ His cheeks a flushed red, and his already swollen lip twisted in an ugly form. Despite being dubbed as an angel’s face, Jongin recoils when Luhan advances towards him, shoulders hunched and fists whitened at the knuckles.

“You shit,” he hisses, grabbing Jongin by the collar. “You sleep away from home for one day and you think you’re all that? Provoking Ryeowook? You pissed Yixing off, too? Who are you, huh? You think you’re an adult now, just ‘cause you can drink and smoke like me? News flash, darling, you’re not—”

“ _Shut up!”_ Jongin yells, wrapping his fingers around Lu’s wrist, trying to yank it away. It doesn’t budge, but the older man’s eyes tints with incredulity. “Stop it, Lu, just _stop it._ I didn’t provoke Ryeowook, I didn’t say anything! He doesn’t like me! And Yixing isn’t pissed at me, he’s pissed at you!” Jongin knows he’s being loud. Jongin knows that sixteen-year-old Jongin was told by twenty-five-year-old Luhan that being loud will get him a hard kiss on the mouth and a hair pull.

Luhan’s eyes widens, and the rage in them shoots up like rockets.

“I’m not your punching bag!” Jongin thrashes around, trying to loosen Lu’s grip off him. He’s tired of getting into fights today. He just wants to go home. “This is all your fault, hyung. You spread those stupid rumors about Chanyeol and everyone hates him now. They _hate_ him for a lie that you made up!”

Luhan shoves him, but it’s so weak and careless that Jongin only stumbles a little bit. He only hits his head a little bit. “You shut up, sweet heart. Stop worrying about him! You always bring up him, him, him, _him._ His business doesn’t concern you.”

“It does concern me,” Jongin bites back, and he sits down on his hand so that the man can’t see them shake. Things aren’t supposed to be like this. In a better world, in better days, Luhan would bend down and kiss his bruises better, and tell him that ‘ _I got you, baby’_ or call him ‘ _darling’._ In a better world, in better days, Luhan wouldn’t be pushing Jongin down, and Jongin wouldn’t want his home to be where Chanyeol is.

In a better world, in better days, things would be like it was before.

“You know the truth too,” Jongin continues, attempting to sit up. “You got it from someone, you heard from someone that Chanyeol’s good with kids— _needed_ to be around children for medical things. Psychological things, and hyung, you twisted it. You twisted it to the point where,” Jongin rolls up his sleeve, showcasing a small patch of bruise that Ryeowook landed on him when he lashed out, “it _does_ concern me, because I like Chanyeol-hyung. He’s good to me.”

“It’s not your business,” Luhan growls. He’s still hovering over him, his jeans faded and ripped. He’s not in his ballet getup, and smells heavily of a woman’s perfume and liquor. “It’s not about you.”

“It’s not about you either,” Jongin says coldly, coaxing a reaction out of Luhan. He waits for a moment, waiting for him to calm down, so that they don’t have be like this; the two of them yelling and shoving one another. “So why did you do that? To Chanyeol and Yoora?”

Luhan scoffs, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. He spits in the nearby trashcan, and bores his eyes into Jongin’s. “You think you got a smart mouth now?” he asks dryly. “One night with Chanyeol? You let the man fuck you too? Let a pedophile fuck you?”

Jongin goes rigid. “We didn’t,” he says, his voice hollow. “And you know he’s not a pedophile. You know better than half of this theatre, and that you got it from some sad nurse in Busan about Chanyeol. You _know_ it.”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

“I won’t,” Jongin shoots back. His voice is cracking, but he doesn’t mind. It’s not important. “You know it, I know it. And we can make the rest of the theatre know it.” He reaches over to grab Luhan’s hand, pleading with him. The elder jerks away, hardening his gaze. “Hyung, you don’t have to do this to people, hurt them like that. Chanyeol is a good guy, so why would you?” _Why?_

“You don’t understand,” Luhan flares. “You’re too _young_ to understand. You see that world out there?” he raises his voice just enough to make an impact. Lu thrusts a hand out the door, where a few doors down is where the crowd was. “You want to live in this fucked up world? Where people throw fists like it’s candy and scream and kick you down. You saw Yixing? You want people like him around you?”

Jongin stays silent.

“I just want to protect you.”

Luhan drops his hand so that it dangles at his side. With his other hand, whose skin is damned with calluses on the knuckles and jagged scars across the wrists, reaches up in an attempt to cup Jongin’s face, and the latter flinches like it’s burning iron. “It’s because I _love_ you, Jongin. Don’t you understand? Yixing can make a man a victim by bruising himself, and Ryeowook can beat up any boy or girl if you look at him wrong. And Chanyeol—?” _Don’t._ “—He’s a sweet talker, but I’m sweeter.”

“Hyung, don’t do this.” Jongin blinks over and over until the man in front of him is just a watery blur, and his eyes are brimmed just as bright as the lights in the room.

“I’m sweeter,” Luhan repeats. “I’m sweeter and better than Chanyeol so don’t you go leaving me. Don’t you go off on night escapades for the hell of it. You can’t live in this world without _me,_ you know that. You know that as much as I do.”

“You hurt him.”

Luhan shrugs, his eyes darting back and forth between the door and Jongin. His hand is still on his cheek, and it’s oh so cold. “He’s a freak, Jongin. Just like his sister, they’re both messes. Two failed doctors, one who owns an indie clinic and another got into a malpractice case.” At the look on Jongin’s face, Luhan’s face lights up in glee. “Oh, so he _didn’t_ tell you about the malpractice. Oops.”

“Stop—”

“He’s a freak, and you don’t need to be around people like that.” He pulls Jongin in, almost like a loving gesture. His first instinct is to push away, but he finds nothing in his bones to shove away at an already broken man. “I love you already, so why do you need him? He won’t stay. He _can’t_ stay.”

_He won’t stay._

Jongin thinks of the man who scribbles down notes in English, and thinks of Yeonhui as home. Somewhere in between the glasses and expensive sweaters, sits a man who sent horoscopes to Jongin tied with laughter and text slangs. Jongin thinks of the man who cried at the bedroom doorway last night, and held Jongin as they watched the skies through the window fade from purple to blue. He remembers the man who promised to take him out to dinner, like in those romantic comedies Jongin watched when nobody's at home.

“Chanyeol will stay,” Jongin croak, and he feels Luhan’s hand stiffen. “Chanyeol will stay with me.”

“Liar.”

Jongin takes a few steps back. He shakes his head, and keeps it gentle and slow. “I’m not. Chanyeol, I think I like him, Lu. And I don't understand why boys liking boys and girls is different, or why people call me a freak and make fun of my medication. I’m not sure why Yixing is upset with me today, or why Ryeowook did those things but I’m sure that even if it’s bad, Chanyeol is good to me. He’ll take me to dinners, and he says he’ll adore me.”

_It’s all I ever wanted._

“So Luhan,” he continues, “please don’t.”

He expects Lu to smile, and ruffle up Jongin’s hair before going out for a smoke. Except he doesn’t, and that expected smile goes sour and looks more like a tragedy.

“But you don’t love him,” Luhan says, eerily calm. “And you _won’t ever_ love him.” He places his papery hand on Jongin’s chest, shoving him down and not caring for the grunt that Jongin makes when his head bumps the seats. Clambering over him, he fastens his thighs over Jongin’s hips. Before the younger boy has a chance to yell or even breathe, Luhan dips down and latches his lips onto his, biting down hard.

Jongin quickly finds the muscles and will in his hands and pushes at Luhan’s chest. _Stop it, stop it, stop it. I don’t like this. I don’t like this anymore._

“I took care of you,” Luhan gasps between each kiss. Jongin kicks around, flailing arms pinned down by Luhan’s hands. _I’m stronger, I’m stronger! Push him, I can push him, I can push—_ “Chanyeol didn’t take care of you. You can’t love a stranger like that.” He leans in and grazes his mouth across Jongin’s, and the bite from earlier draws blood.

“Stop,” Jongin whispers, his voice too soft. He turns his face away, squeezing them shut. _This is wrong._ “ Don’t touch me—don’t touch me like that.” _Push him! For fucking sake’s, push him Jongin!_ Facing the wall across the dressing rooms, he shuts his eyes and clamps his teeth down on his tongue. _Push him off, whY AREN’T YOU PUSHING HIM OFF?_

Luhan presses an ugly kiss to his cheek, more tongue and spit than lips. Jongin squirms and gasps for air. “I love you,” Luhan says softly against his skin, his hand reaching down under to undo his shirt. His hand freezes, and for a moment, Jongin wonders if he’s going to stop.

_Please stop._

_Push him off._

_WHY AREN’T YOU PUSHING HIM OFF?_

His hand slides down over his stomach, flattening out his palm to caress hot skin.

_You don’t love me._

Jongin, with his hands free, drives them into Luhan’s chest. _Push him off, push him hard, pUSH HIM HARD._ Luhan loses his ground and his knees dips to the wood flooring, and Jongin in pants and choked breaths scrambles to his feet.

 _This is all a bad dream,_ he thinks to himself, _this is all a bad dream. I’ll wake up and it’ll go away._

That thought halts to a stop when he staggers to the mirror, and sees his disheveled hair and bruise lining across the neck where Ryeowook held him. Lips swollen and bloody, eyes wild.

He doesn’t stop to hear what Luhan has to say. Without hesitation, he grabs his phone and jacket, buttoning up his shirt.

“Jongin, I—”

“Don’t touch me!” Jongin snaps. His hands are cold, and the reflection in front of him showcases a man with tear stains streaked across his face like paint strokes. Luhan’s face is unreadable, but he thinks he sees a flash of guilt that dances between his eyes, but it dies quickly. “You can’t k-kiss me like that. Don’t _touch_ me like that.”

Luhan reaches out for him, his face is torn apart like a ripped up canvas, and his shirt is all wrinkled and slipping off his shoulder. “Wait, please listen to me.” Desperate. “Jongin, I didn’t mean it like this.”

Jongin is already out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Jongin edit by [@kaisces](https://www.instagram.com/kaisces/?hl=en) ^^
>
>> [A video posted by hyo (@kaisces)](https://www.instagram.com/p/BH-I1QJAcVf/) on Jul 17, 2016 at 10:26am PDT


	15. Therapy Boy

_Unreal._ Everything is unreal.

Shoving his clean clothes into a string bag, he looks around frantically. Not only is he waiting for an enraged phone call from Joonmyun and Sojin, but he’s on his guard, waiting for the bedroom doors to burst in.

He has never really been afraid of Luhan. But this—this is different.

“Clean clothes, clean clothes, I just need a bit of clothes,” he mumbles to himself, stuffing the odds and ends of t-shirts and jeans into his bag. He doesn’t pack a lot, he doesn’t want to. He’ll come back. _He’ll come back._

His drawers are all pulled apart, and clothes are strewn from his bed to the furnace. Holding himself against the railing so he doesn’t tumble down the stairs, he takes a moment to digest everything. Yixing, Ryeowook, and Luhan. The thoughts and ideas throbs against his forehead like a blood vessel waiting to burst.

The kitchen is a mess, with the cooler half-opened consisting of State beers and cheap soju. He yanks open the cabinet and pulls down two bottles of Advil and his medication. Swearing under his breath, he stuffs them into his bag and the painkillers into his pocket. _I can’t stay here. I can’t stay here at all._

The last thing he sees is his reflection once more. It makes him sick.

Jongin throws himself out of the little red house and runs down the street even tough he doesn’t have to. He passes by Old Noona, who is towering over her flowers as she waters them. He thinks she’s saying something to him, maybe asking where he is running off to. But Jongin can’t hear much with the wind beating against his ear.

He’s going home, where he is the most happiest.

Diving into Chanyeol’s street, his legs are aching and his muscles clench at his thighs. He wants to throw him, remembering how teasing Lu’s hands were against his skin. _It wasn’t always like this._ The string bag on his back feels heavy and weighs him down with all the medication and clothes.

He catches sight of the familiar red house, with the roses peeking out of their buds behind white-picketed fences.

Home is where he is the most happiest.

Jongin collapses on the steps from exertion, rapping his red knuckles on the painted door. _Please be home, please be home._ The door swings open with a creak, and laying on the porch, he sees tall pink heels.

“Jongin!” Yoora gasps, startled. Quickly crouching down, she wraps her arms around Jongin’s arms, wheezing as she tries to pull him in. “Oh, poor baby, what’s wrong? _Are you bruised around your neck?_ Oh my God—”

“C-Chanyeol,” Jongin splutters. “I really have to see him, talk to him about something.” He tosses his head from side to side, hoping to catch sight of a tall man with glasses and welcoming arms.

“He’s at the clinic, I just went home to make lunch—oh my God what on earth happened to you?” Yoora cups his face and runs her dainty fingers across his swollen lip. “I just saw you this morning and you look this!” Yoora looks frustrated with the tears brimming her lashes.

“I want hyung,” Jongin murmurs, looking away. His neck doesn’t really hurt anymore, and his lip stopped bleeding. Lu didn’t bite that deep. “I want Chanyeol, noona.”

“Jongin, I need you to at least tell me why you’re here.” Yoora turns his head and tilts it up, her frown deepening as she examines the marks. “Someone choked you. I may just be a clinic doctor but I know and you have to tell me.”

“I want Chanyeol,” he says again, tugging on her sleeve. “I want Chanyeol. I want him.”

“Jongin,” Yoora starts. “Alright, alright. I’ll call my brother. Jongin, I need you to go rest on the sofa right now, I’ll make up a drink for you, okay?” She gives Jongin a pat and a kiss on the forehead, and he climbs onto the sofa and hugs his bag of clothes  tightly.

_Things aren’t supposed to be like this._

He can hear Yoora chatting on the phone, even if she’s intending to be quiet. “Chanyeol, I need you to come home. No, I’ll… yes I’ll be heading over to the clinic but I need you to come home. It’s about Jongin, he just showed up and he looks…no, listen to me! Don’t overreact, let me finish. …I said shut up! Jongin is all panicked and looks like… oh my God, Chanyeol he’s not dying. There’s bruises around his neck and he won’t talk to me about it. Just come home, he’s your boyfriend now isn’t he? Oh my God—you can’t just fucking leave the clinic unattended— _are you running right now?_ ”

Yoora huffs and ends the call. Tip-toeing over to Jongin, who has his face buried in the pillows, she ruffles up his hair gently.

“Poor baby,” she coos, her voice like honey. “Chanyeol’s coming, okay? He’ll probably be here in a few minutes at the rate he’s running. Nobody is going to hurt you, Jongin. It’s okay.”

_Lies._

He hears the door shut.

Jongin looks down at his phone. The time shines mid-afternoon, and his last next to Sehun consists of “ _I’m going home.”_ There’s an unread message from Sojin that is seemingly panicky with the way it’s all misspelled for someone like her, someone who enjoys perfection. His background photo is the three of them, Sehun, Luhan and him a few years back. Sehun and him were probably seventeen or eighteen in the photograph, which was taken in Hong Kong when they visited the Hong Kong Theatre to meet the students there.

They looked so happy back then.

He shuts his phone off and tosses it to the side, curling in at the sofa.

Within minutes, he hears the front door thrown open, and Jongin sits up immediately, opening to be toss against the couch again by a bruting strength and glasses. Chanyeol is breathing heavily near his ear, and Jongin can feel the sweat against his jawline as Chanyeol tightens his hold on Jongin.

“I can’t breathe,” Jongin says weakly. Chanyeol clambers onto the couch and with care, lies Jongin down on the pillows so that his feet are resting comfortable on Chanyeol’s lap. The man eyes him, frantic and pained. “Chanyeol-ah.” Jongin reaches up and tugs on his ear, and an ease settles quickly in his chest.

“What happened to you?” Chanyeol asks without another breath. His usual velvet voice hardens into stone, with his thick fingers lining his bruised jawline. Suddenly shy, Jongin pulls back, tugging up his shirt to hide his skin. Chanyeol’s face falls, but he quickly assesses to this by pulling Jongin’s hand away. “If you don’t tell me—I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“I got people mad at the theatre,” Jongin admits quietly. He doesn’t want to say it’s because of Chanyeol’s rumors. He can’t bear to see his face crumble again. “I yelled things, and they didn’t like these things. And then they…” Jongin looks down at Chanyeol’s hands. They’re gripping the edge of the sofa so tightly that Jongin can see all the veins and bones outlined. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“You should’ve called me.”

“It happened so fast hyung,” Jongin says quickly. He doesn’t want to upset Chanyeol either. “I didn’t know what to do and I just…I just went home. I wanted to go where you are and just sleep it off.”

Chanyeol throws his hand into the couch, and though it’s just leather, Jongin yelps. He didn’t hurt himself, but Jongin grabs his hand and cradles it against his chest, kissing it with his swollen lip. _Lips that Luhan kissed._ Shaking that thought away, he scoots in closer to Chanyeol, who snakes his arms around him tightly.

“Tell me their names,” Chanyeol pleads, stroking the back of Jongin’s neck. He manages to pull Jongin so that the boy is sitting in his lap, and his legs anchored around his hips. “Jongin, if someone even _touches_ you, you need to speak up. Or else they’ll think it’s okay to do things like that. For the love of God, _speak up."_

“It’s not that easy.”

“I’m going to talk to Joonmyun,” Chanyeol says, his words throned with spikes. “Jongin, this is more than some petty dancer disliking you. It’s assault and you’re _fucking bruised for goodness’ sake.”_ Jongin flinches. The man rarely swears, but when he does it bites in the right places.

“Adults gets into fights all the time,” Jongin says, his voice small. “It’s no big deal. I’m an adult now. I’m an adult.”

Jongin hides in between the folds of where Chanyeol’s collar ends and his skin begins. He wonders how things got like this, where there’s cuts on both their backs from strangers, and they huddle in lavender scented clothes and tousled hair. Chanyeol runs his hand up and down the smaller man’s back, burying his face into the crook of his neck.

“Who touched you like this?” Chanyeol asks, his voice a whirlwind of threats and pain. He reaches up to line the splotchy bruise that crowns his neck. It doesn’t hurt, and Jongin tries to shrug off his touch by grabbing his hand and intertwining them with his twiggy fingers. Without much thought, Jongin puckers out his lips so that they touch Chanyeol’s skin.

 _Love bites,_ he thinks.

Chanyeol wraps his arms under Jongin’s legs and lets the latter throw his hands around his neck in a secured fashion. In easy but cautious steps, he carries the him upstairs and kicks open his bedroom door with his foot. It’s funny, because in the earliest mornings of today, Jongin remembers hugging the man in a daze between sleep and reality.

Laying Jongin down, he doesn’t let go until he fluffs up the pillow for him, his hands reaching up to push aside a few stray hairs. Jongin stares at him with owl eyes as the Chanyeol disappears into the bathroom. With the door ajar, Jongin keeps his gaze on the tall man who has his shoulders hunched, arms working hastily digging through the cabinet. Chanyeol emerges out of the bathroom with a tiny first-aid kit that looks like children’s play in his hands.

“What are you doing?”

Chanyeol pries open the kit, settling down on the edge of the bed. He smiles up at Jongin, but it looks so tired that he can’t believe it’s him. His glasses are slipping off his nose as he pulls out rubbing alcohol and a roll of bandages.

“Fixing you up.” He unravels the bandage, his movement rusty. “I don’t understand you.”

“Huh?”

Chanyeol rolls up Jongin’s sleeve, his fingers teasing and it’s only accidental. Jongin shivers at his touch. “You’re always getting hurt,” he says sadly. “I’ve only known you for a few months but you already—you make me worried sick. But you don’t take it seriously at all. Like all these injuries are just okay to you. Just okay.”

Jongin jerks a little, as if each word that rolls off Chanyeol’s tongue takes a personal jab at his skin. “It’s not like that hyung,” Jongin swallows. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“You know the first time I met you?” Chanyeol starts slowly, wrapping the bandage around his forearm tightly. Jongin’s not sure where that cut came from, perhaps from the dressing room hour. “You were on the floor crying, and I didn’t know. I didn’t know that you were suffering from Todd Syndrome. And you know what I thought? I thought to myself, this isn’t fair. It’s unfair how you were crying only to stand up abruptly with a smile on your face. Like it was okay that you were just crying. And I went home, and I asked about you. I asked about you to Yoora who told me to be gentle around you.”

Jongin blinks. The numbing feeling from the bandage isn’t bothering him, but after quickly tying it up, Chanyeol sits upright in front of him.

“But you be gentle to me too,” Chanyeol continues, “you can’t go around hurting yourself.” He holds up his pinky, which is the size of Jongin’s index finger. It’s saying, _pinky promise,_ and Jongin hooks his pinky with his.

“Can I stay here the night?” Jongin asks sheepishly. _Home is where I’m happiest, and at this chapter, it’s here._ “I’m sorry, hyung—I mean, Lu used to say I get too comfortable around people and it makes others feel awkward, but I don’t…I don’t know where to go.”

Chanyeol’s eyes wither like dried out flowers when they flicker to Jongin’s neck. “You know,” Chanyeol says, rubbing his thumb over Jongin’s wrist bones. “I stopped counting the number of times I wanted to kiss you. Before everything, before last night. I wanted to kiss your forehead when you took me out on the second day I met you, and I wanted to do it again when you came to the physio.”

“Is that a yes?”

Chanyeol leans in, slowly as if to give Jongin a chance to deny him. The smaller boy stays still, until plush lips meet the top of his head. “Yes,” Chanyeol says softly. “It’s a yes.”

He pulls away messily when Chanyeol’s phone rings. Jongin, all flustered, quickly dives under the blanket while minding his bandaged arm. “Who is it?” Jongin asks, biting down on his own sleeves. He squeezes his eyes shut until he sees blue and red under his lids. _Don’t let it be Joonmyun, don’t let it be Joonmyun._

“It’s Jongdae-ssi,” Chanyeol mutters, frowning. “He has been calling me a lot as of lately. I don’t know what to do.”

Jongin perks up. “Jongdae-ssi? He really has been worried. At the physio, I mean. He paces back and forth more often.”

“But I don’t know what to say,” Chanyeol admits. He holds up the phone so Jongin can see a string of kaomojis and random Hangul letterings.

 

5:21시간

 **Jongdae** : (＃￣0￣)

 **Jongdae** : ୧((#Φ益Φ#))୨

 **Jongdae** : o(〒﹏〒)o

 **Jongdae** : (╥_╥)

 **Jongdae** : ╮(￣_￣)╭

 **Jongdae** : ㅎㅇ…

 **Jongdae** : ＼(º □ º l|l)/

 **Jongdae:** Come back

(4) 부재중 전화 (4 Missed Calls)

 

Jongin chuckles, finding amusement in Chanyeol’s puzzled expression. “It means Jongdae-ssi likes you. I wouldn’t be surprise if he starts telling everyone he’s your best friend.” He bursts into a string of laughter at Chanyeol’s look of horror. “Jongdae-ssi is very outgoing, you should let him in. He makes friends so easily—I think he’s on good terms with all the dancers. I wish I was like that.”

Jongin fiddles with the hems of the blanket sheets. It looks like it might rain outside. Chanyeol rests his face on the flat of his palm, towering over Jongin who is lying down. At this angle, he can see all the imperfections nestled between Chanyeol’s skin. The mole on the bump of his nose, and spots where he must have missed when it came to shaving. Without realizing, he reaches up to rake his fingers through Chanyeol’s dark hair.

The man smiles and pulls Jongin’s hand away, only to fold it in his bigger grasp. “You don’t have be ambitious and forward, Jongin. I like you the way you are.”

“Even if I’m quiet?” Jongin asks. He starts to get sleepy, and a yawn betrays him mid-sentence. “Even if…even if I’m not funny and strong?”

Chanyeol dips down, but instead of kissing square on the mouth, he gives the smallest of pecks on the corner of his lips. “Don’t think like that. Just keep being you, and I’ll keep being me.”

For a long time, it’s just the two of them. Chanyeol is half under the sheets and the other half of him in the bare air. His arms are awkwardly placed on Jongin’s chest, fingers padding up and down like tiny footsteps up his skin. Sometimes they would tense when they come too close to his neck, where the bruises aren’t as noticeable, but one could trace the hand prints inked with discoloration.

As for Jongin, he counts the number of times he shivers when Chanyeol breathes too closely to his ear. The other man’s glasses were taken off, and rested at the edge of Jongin’s feet. And if he wiggles them, he can feel the frame of the glasses near his toes between the sheets. _Five, six, seven._ Chanyeol’s breath is minty and fragile against his skin, like a caress from a breeze that is fueled by a small cry in the air. _Eight, nine, ten._ And every time he stirs in his rest, Chanyeol soothes him once again by gripping his arms in reassurance.

Jongin’s eyelids are battling with his conscious. “You’re sleepy,” Chanyeol points out. By this time, even his voice is heavy, and he is laying right beside Jongin, heads shared between one pillow. “Go to bed. You had a long day.”

“Are you mad?” Jongin asks groggily. It’s perhaps six in the evening now. He wonders if Joonmyun is upset, or if he’ll receive consequences tomorrow. Right now it’s not important, because he has Chanyeol who barricades him into a security of pillows, blankets and dreams.

“I’m upset,” says Chanyeol. “I’m upset because you got yourself hurt. I’m upset that you let yourself get hurt. And that you’re letting it go so easily—I _am_ upset.”

Jongin winces, as if something stung him.

“But,” continues Chanyeol. “I’m not upset at you. I’m upset at the theatre.” He stroke the side of Jongin’s face, the flesh between his cheek and ear.

“I just wanted to grow up for you,” Jongin mutters. His own voice droops and is weighed down by his thoughts. “So that I won’t be another Kyungsoo, another child for you.”

“Jongin.”

“I’ll grow up,” Jongin says, a yawn seeping out of chapped lips. He pulls the covers up until there’s a thin layer of blanket between him and Chanyeol. “I’ll grow up and I’ll be an adult.”

There are few nights where Jongin get to sleep in loving arms. This is one of them.

♕♕♕

He wakes up at 1 AM out of habit. An email from Joonmyun sits on the notification screen of his phone. The pillow next to him is empty, but he’s still in Chanyeol’s bedroom. A dim light in the corner to give view of the room. Simple but cozy. Ignoring the pang in his chest waking up alone, he checks the message. _Excused, I heard about it. Come see me tomorrow morning early._ Jongin frowns and scrolls down to a separate email sent only minutes after the first one. _I applaud you, too. You got Chanyeol to show up at my office in a fit of rage. Now that’s talent! xoxo_

Jongin goes cold all over. Chanyeol showed up at the theatre? He whirls around the bed, messing up the sheets but he’ll clean it up later. Chanyeol’s wallet from the bed stand is gone, and so are his glasses at the end of the table. He peeks at the door and relaxes to see the hallway lights still on from the space under.

He stands up, and reaches up for his shoulder out of reflex, only to freeze. His shirt hasn’t slipped from his shoulder nowadays, and perfectly fits him. He feels a hard frown forming about his lips. _The weight plan,_ he thinks with a surge of emotions. _The one Chanyeol put me on._ Jongin places a careful hand over his stomach and up his ribs. More flesh.

He starts to get dizzy, and stumbles out of the bedroom before he can think about it anymore. “Hyung?” he calls out nervously, looking down at the steps. He’s not sure which shoes Chanyeol was wearing earlier today to tell if he’s back or not. “Chanyeollie, where are you?”

Jongin hurries down the steps, the wood creaking as he takes each steps. He peers into the living room only to be greeted with darkness. He turns towards the kitchen, and there is Yoora and Chanyeol at the dining table, with nothing but a bottle of wine between them and exhaustion etched into their faces. They looked as if they were in mid-conversation the moment Jongin had slipped in.

“Jongin,” Chanyeol says, starting to stand up.

Yoora shakes his head. “Don’t bother, you two have a talk.” She smiles at Jongin with empathy. “Lil’ bro gave me the rundown. You’re welcomed to stay here for as long as you liked. I’m sure Chanyeol would love for you to stay forever.” She winks, and Jongin isn’t sure whether the blush on Chanyeol is from the wine in his hand or from what she said.

“Hyung,” Jongin says when Yoora sings her way up the stairs. He waits until he thinks he hears her bedroom door close. He sinks down into the chair and looks at anywhere but Chanyeol. “Where did you go?”

A hand reaches over to pat his. “Nowhere,” Chanyeol says.

Jongin bites his inner cheek. “Don’t be like that,” he huffs. He doesn’t mean to sound irritated, it just came out like that. “Joonmyun…he emailed me. Said that you came over angry. That you were in a _fit of rage._ ” Chanyeol blanches, and sets his wine glass down.

“I tried not to be angry,” Chanyeol says faintly. “I tried so hard.”

“You shouldn’t have came to the theatre,” Jongin says, furrowing his brows. He looks up, his eyes focused on the way Chanyeol seemed uneasy. “They’ll just say bad things about you and,” _hurt your feelings. They’ll break you, they want to._

“There’s not a lot of bad things they could say about me at this point.” Chanyeol rubs his eyes. The cheerful facade of messy hair and playful fingers earlier fades. “And I don’t blame them.”

“You should.”

“Huh?”

“You _should."_  Jongin curls in his hands until it trembles. He caps the wine bottle with the cork and holds it against his chest, the wine inside sloshing back and forth and making him sick. “You should blame them. You should yell and you should thrash around until they see you. ‘Til they _really_ see you.” _You should do what I do. Do what I do and get bruises on your neck. Get your vocal chords throbbing and your chest feeling lighter._

“Jongin,” Chanyeol says, looking like a lost child. It is in this moment, that Jongin can see the childhood between the man’s eyes, stolen away and is now waking up in the body of a twenty-nine-year-old. “You… you’re so—”

Crazy. Freak. Childish. So unworthy. _You’re so disgusting, Jongin._

“—Mature.”

Jongin bites his tongue. At this time, he should cry out and taste blood on his teeth and taste buds. He should be calling out for Sehun, who will dab his mouth with an ice cube until he can’t feel the insides of his mouth or the metallic taste of blood. But at this moment, he can’t feel anything.

“Mature?” Jongin echoes. No one has called him mature before. They’d call him mature-looking, with his supposedly built structure of shoulders and arms. With his height, and his voice. But _not_ mature-seeming, with the way adults pointed out the way his sweaters slipped off his bones and his wild eyes. “You got it—you got it wrong. I’m not mature, Sehun and Luhan says that I’ll grow up but I’m not mature.” He’s laughing. It’s fake.

Chanyeol slams his hand against the table, and Jongin is glad that the bottle is nestled in his lap, for it would topple over and smash into glass and red. Jongin yelps, sounding like an injured puppy when he catches how scorched red Chanyeol’s fist is, as the table shakes on its legs, and Chanyeol standing up, hunched.

“Sehun and Luhan said this, Sehun and Luhan said that.” Jongin shrinks back in his seat. Kind and gentle Chanyeol, always lacking menace in his words and smile, is yelling. His flushed face is twisted in a set of rage and exasperation. There’s no more room for Jongin to scoot back into, and the sloshing bottle of wine feels too heavy in his grasp. “What about _you,_ Jongin,what about you say? What do you think? Not what they think, but you, you!”

“Chanyeol,” Jongin squeaks. He grips on the neck of the bottle so tightly that it may break. “I’m sorry.”

_What am I sorry for?_

Chanyeol runs his hands through his hair violently. Jongin wants to reach out and pull his arms away, pleading with him to stop or Chanyeol will hurt himself, with all that strength residing in his grip. He paces back and forth, his body language rigid and expressing in a disturbingly familiar fashion.

Jongin settles the wine bottle on the table awkwardly, running his sweaty palms up and down his sides. There’s a small amount of space between him and Chanyeol. Part of him wants to close the gap with opened arms, and grip the taller man with loving strength and make it stop. _You’re scaring me,_ he wants to say. His mouth stays shut.

“It’s always this and that with you,” Chanyeol says, his words biting left and right as he quickens his feet. He’s going back and forth in the dining room, the lights dimmed and Jongin wonders if Yoora can hear. If she cares. Chanyeol’s hands are resting on the back of his neck, the veins so thick that Jongin swears he can see blood rushing through the skin.

His blood.

“Don’t you think for yourself? You’re twenty, Jongin, and everyday whenever you talk or reach out for me on your own will, my chest it—it _swells_ with fucking happiness because I think, he’s doing it for himself. He’s doing it because he feels the same for me. But when the names _Sehun and Luhan_ leave your lips, all that chest swelling and happiness deflates because,” he whirls on him, sounding broken and helpless. “Is it really out of your own will?”

Jongin flinches, taking a few steps back as if he had been struck. “I do…I do feel the same for you.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling. His bottom lip tastes of the same metallic feeling, and he realizes he had bit his lip. “It is out of my own will. It is. I think that I _love—_ ” his hands fly out of his pocket and clamps over his mouth, eyes going so wide that they hurt.

_I love._

Chanyeol stops moving. Stops moving entirely, with his hands that stopped its uneasiness and his breathing had halted. His dark gray hair that Jongin adores so much, sticks out in wild strands of ashy gray. It makes him look so young, almost Jongin’s age.

“No you don’t.” Chanyeol sounds terrified. His hands are limp by his side, his shirt a little bit unbuttoned so that Jongin can see streaks of blooming red across them, as if the Devil had ran his nails across his chest. He looks so shrunken down, like a little boy of the tender age of God knows what. “You can say that but you don’t mean it. You don’t love me. It’s too…it’s too _soon._ ” His words are etched with panic and fear. He turns his back on Jongin, and he can see the outline of his spine in the tight-fitting shirt.

“But it’s,” it’s true. It has to be true. How else does it explain the feeling of exhilarating lust that course through his skin whenever Chanyeol intertwines his fingers through his, or the way he runs his mouth just down the side of his face with nothing but peppering and loving kisses? Or the way his heart does unscientific things when Chanyeol pushes up his glasses and scrunches up his nose?

“You say the same things about everyone else.” Chanyeol isn’t snapping at him. It’s not that he’s angry, but the way his voice is bouncing off the wall instead of facing Jongin, it hurts. “When you came here with nothing but sweet things on your tongue, I thought, this is it. That those months of feeling unrequited things are over and you and I can be things that we see on sitcoms and romance novels. But your love goes around so much that it’s not…it’s not _love._ ”

“Chanyeol,” Jongin’s voice breaks, and his feet are shuffling closer to him. He doesn’t like the yelling, the broken sorrow and the emptiness between them, between the room. “It’s not like that.”

“I shouldn’t be upset.” Chanyeol clears his throat and tries to sound light and happy. Even though his back is turned on him, Jongin can see the way he raises his hands to wipe something away from his face. “You got a lot of love in you. I shouldn’t be upset that you love others, too. That it’s the same for others.”

Jongin sinks down right next to him, hesitant hands reaching out for him. Chanyeol goes stiff and lets the other boy clamber into his lap, even if he’s a bit too big. He wraps his arms around his neck, and feels that his skin is hot against his. “Is it because I said I loved Luhan the other night?” he asks meekly. He hides in the middle of Chanyeol’s chest, and doesn’t feel Chanyeol’s arms go up to wrap around him. His hands are still limp by his side.

“I don’t know,” Chanyeol swallows. “I don’t know.”

“Did I say something wrong then?” Jongin asks sadly. He wants the other man to fold him up against his chest, in the way Jongin has watched on his sitcoms. In the way he had seen in magazines with a man coddling a woman, the headlines of ‘How to Care for your Girlfriend & Keep Her’. In the way that they both had seemed so happy, and a text of unreadable English bulleted down the side.

As if reading his mind, Chanyeol gracelessly encases him in his arms, his wristwatch digging into Jongin’s side but he doesn’t mind. He nuzzles his nose into Jongin’s shoulder, finally allowing himself to breathe. Both of them.

“Did someone kiss you?” Chanyeol asks, his words muffled but the message clear. Jongin goes cold, all the air in the room feeling hot. Jongin loosens his grip on Chanyeol but the latter quickly grabs his wrists and puts it back in place, as if to say, ‘ _please don’t let go’._ So he doesn’t.

Jongin doesn’t know what to say.

“It was an accident!” he blurts out quickly, because if he doesn’t say anything, he’ll suffocate. “I’m sorry, I know—I _know now_ that kisses belong to you and I should keep them for you, and hugs and touches too. That they’re for you and I know that but I…” he trails off when he realizes Chanyeol isn’t pushing him away.

_Disgusting. I’m disgusting, a lil’ freak._

Jongin shuts his eyes tightly. He pulls his hands away and holds them close to his chest. He isn’t religious, and hasn’t been since Tao pushed him into stained-glass windows. Even in the dark of his eyelids, he feels Chanyeol’s hands reach up and push his hair away, and a feathery kiss hot and gentle against his forehead.

And they stay like that, for how long, he doesn’t know.

When Chanyeol pulls away, his face is unreadable but it is nothing but gentle. “Go to sleep,” he says quietly. He strokes Jongin’s hair with affection before hoisting him up as the he himself staggers to his feet. He settles Jongin down on his feet but not without ruffling his hair. “It has been a long day for you.”

“You’re not mad?” Jongin asks timidly, and a bit of incredulity slips through his words. “You don’t hate me?”

“I can’t hate you.”

Chanyeol, wordlessly, puts the bottle of wine back on the shelf of liquor, and turns on the faucet and runs the glass under the water. Jongin stares at him, feeling like a stranger in the middle of the dining room.

When Chanyeol looks up, he seems so vulnerable that Jongin has to keep himself against the edge of the table, to keep himself from breaking.

“Go to bed,” Chanyeol says again, his smile lines showing again.

“In what room?” Jongin winces. His voice sounds awful, lined with cracks and all throaty.

Chanyeol wipes down the wine glass clean and keeps it on the drying rack. “You can sleep in whatever room,” he hesitates. “But I want to hold you. If that’s okay?” Embarrassed, he looks down again, wiping down the other glass.

Jongin walks upstairs, feeling too lost with himself and Chanyeol. Feeling sticky in his clothing, he wants to strip immediately and wear fresher clothes. Carrying his string bag in his arms, he knocks on the bathroom door.

“Coming!” Yoora calls out from inside, and he hears water splashing. When the door opens, he is greeted with Yoora in a gel mask and her hair in a rosy pink towel. Jongin jumps, a little bit taken aback that Yoora giggles. “It’s a tea-tree mask. It makes my skin soft in the way that Sehun likes it.” She beams, and gathers up her makeup bag.

“Oh,” Jongin scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. The two of them hear the sink running downstairs, Chanyeol doing the dishes.

“I heard my brother yelling,” Yoora says. “Don’t worry, it’s not at you.”

“How do you know?” Jongin asks, without thinking.

“Hmm,” Yoora taps her chin. Her finger gets all sticky with her mask. “I know him. He has three yelling voices. One is at himself, one is at the world, and one is at God.” She makes a disgusted face and wipes her sticky hands on her bathrobe.

“And which one was the one just now?” Jongin asks, feeling lightheaded. He just wants to sleep, but he’s afraid of waking up to an empty bed again. The way Luhan used to promise he’ll be home before sunrise and doesn’t come home for two days. The way Chanyeol left him in his nap to go to the theatre.

Yoora shrugs. “Probably his fourth one,” she says nonchalantly. “I’ll label it the Luhan-is-a-fucking-bastard yell. Very common, very versatile.” She sounds so cheeky that Jongin wonders if she is truly in her thirties.

“I thought you liked Luhan,” Jongin says, pulling down on his shirt. Yoora is humming and stuffing everything in her makeup bag, pausing every few seconds to dab at her mask. “You used to go drinking with him a lot. Back when I was still in high school, I mean.”

“Oh, honey.” Yoora twists her face, getting some of her mask on her eyelid. “No one in Yeonhui _really_ likes Luhan. Unless you’re a hormonal teenage boy or girl—Lu doesn’t discriminate—that wants a bit of rough love for the night. Me drinking with Luhan was out of tradition. Everyone gets a drink with Luhan, whether they like it or not.”

Jongin feels a pang of guilt in his chest, one that might have thrown him into the door had he not been in the right state of mind. Talking about Luhan behind his back feels _wrong,_ and he recalls the way Luhan looked in his mind, hair all disheveled like sex hair, and a cigarette between his mouth like an aesthetic. “I don’t understand,” he says, sounding daze. “I thought…I thought everyone loved Luhan.”

“Do you?” she asks, raising her brow. “Even when he assaulted you earlier in the theatre?”

Jongin chokes on his next words.

Yoora’s quirky expression dissolves into that of an apology. “That’s probably why Chanyeol was all riled up earlier. And why he stopped by that shady liquor store and and came out with like three bottles. Don’t worry, he’s not upset at you, but maybe you should’ve told him.” She shrugs but even Jongin can the wrinkled lines on her forehead. “I know he told you about his problems. And the issues with children. I’m glad he told you though, so please love him.”

Before Jongin can even utter a reply, she gives him a kiss on the cheek that leaves a bit of mask residue and says good night.

He leaves the bathroom with a new change of clothes, feeling fresher with all the tear stains watered off and his skin less icky. He stops in the middle of the hallway, wondering which room to sleep in, and which room is the right one. He thinks back to what Chanyeol said earlier, about wanting to hold him. Jongin spins on his heels and knocks on Chanyeol’s bedroom door.

“Come in.”

There he is, in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt. Chanyeol’s hair is all combed down and his glasses sit on the slope of his nose without it slipping down or anything. He occupies on one side of the bed, a medical book opened on his lap with the lamp shining brightly on his skin. He can see all of his blemishes, and that’s what he adores about him.

The other side of the bed is left untouched for him.

Jongin sheepishly climbs into bed next to him, careful not to nudge him in the process, not to bother him. Chanyeol stares at him with soft eyes. It’s almost hard to believe this is the same man who broke down in the middle of the dining room, and had slammed his fist on the table enough to shake the wooden legs.

“I brushed my teeth,” Chanyeol says quietly, as if the whole neighborhood might hear him. “And swished some mouthwash. I don’t smell like wine anymore, I know you don’t like it.”

Jongin seems in awe. “How do you know?”

Chanyeol shrugs, bookmarking his book and sets it down on the nightstand. His hands are empty now, folded in his lap like he has nowhere to put it. “You always twist up your face whenever you smell alcohol. You don’t seem to like the smell of it, yet you drink it anyways.”

Jongin sinks down on the pillow. It’s so soft, and he thinks back to the teddy bear at home. _Home,_ he wonders if the little red house is still home, and whether or not Luhan and Sehun still welcomed him there. The teddy bear is all worn down and losing his patch of fur, occupying his spot on the bed. He thinks Chanyeol is like a teddy bear, too, all worn out and cuddly.

“I don’t like drinking at all,” he admits. “Makes me nauseous. My sisters used to drink, a lot. I think I just got sick of the smell and it ruined it for me.”

“I’ll try not to drink a lot then.” Chanyeol undoes his hands and pulls Jongin’s hand into his lap. It’s a habit, they’ve decided. It’s an _obsession._ He plays with his fingers, tugging on them and running over the bumps of his knuckles. “So you don’t smell it.”

“You don’t have to.” Jongin leans closer to him, as it’s safe to do so now. The lump of fault is thick in his throat, and no matter how many times he swallows his own saliva, it doesn’t go away. “Can you tell me why you were at the theatre?”

Chanyeol shuts his eyes, but continues toying with Jongin’s hand. “I thought I’d get fired, I really did. I told Joonmyun I’d take it personally if no one does anything about the… _issues_ that happened today. He told me that you’re all just kids, and kids get into petty argument. I guess that really threw me off.” He reaches up to touch the hand marks on Jongin’s neck. Most have faded already. “I got upset. I tried to hold it in but I…”

“Did you do anything?”

_Did you hurt anyone?_

Chanyeol flinches. “I didn’t punch anyone, if that’s what you met.” Jongin bites on his inner cheek, realizing how hurt Chanyeol sounded. “I stopped mostly in college. I’m better now. But no, I just stormed off. Told Joonmyun I’d get lawyers on him. Lawyer Byun Baekhyun.”

Jongin, taken aback, stares at him in disbelief. “But isn’t Baekhyun an artist?”

Chanyeol laughs dryly. “He is, but Joonmyun doesn’t know that. Baekhyun used to use my name as a cop. Said that if his art clients didn’t pay up, he’d get Mr. Park the police officer on them. We use each other's names as getaways. It’s a good friendship.”

“I want to meet Baekhyun,” Jongin says.

“You can, he’s a nice guy.” Chanyeol clears his throat. “I ran into Luhan.”

Jongin’s chest sinks. “Oh.”

“He didn’t do much, maybe spit his cigarette at my shoes, and called me a ‘child-lover’.” Chanyeol looks ill at the last word, and Jongin tightens his hands on his to let him know he’s okay. “Said other things, but mainly swears. A bit of Mandarin, too. I don’t know much about Mandarin, but I don’t think they were pretty words.”

This isn’t the Luhan he knows, the one who walks like a King while dusting ash and dust off his shoes. The thought of him spitting on Chanyeol with his Marlboro’s or Lucky Strikes. The swearing part sounds like Luhan though, but both thoughts leaves him unnerved.

Chanyeol nudges him. “He told me kissed you.” If he sounded hurt before, he’s shattered now. “Told me he kissed you in the dressing rooms.”

Jongin fidgets. “I didn’t think he would.” Though fitted in fresh clothes and clean skin, he feels suddenly disgusting. He sinks back further and further on the pillow until both ends of it pools over his face like walls. “Did I cheat on you?” he asks, appalled. “Oh no, I did…I did, didn’t I?”

Chanyeol shakes his head, even if everything about him screams that he is upset. “No you didn't. It was assault. You didn’t know,” he says, his voice low and throaty as always. “We never really established ourselves. It’s my fault, I’m a coward.”

“A coward?”

“Was afraid,” he says nervously. “The age difference—”

Jongin sits up, undignified. “Sehun is dating noona!” he says, accidentally a bit too loudly. “And they have an eleven year age difference. Almost ten in few weeks. What’s wrong with you and me? It’s just nine. Nine isn’t bad, nine isn’t a lot.” Chanyeol sits up too, exhaustion coursing through his face like the wind.

“I know my sister is dating Sehun. But it’s different with us.” He grabs Jongin’s waist and pulls him in closer, not so that he’s completely on his lap, but so his legs are buckled on the sides of Chanyeol’s thighs, sleep wear in between them. “We’re…we’re not man and woman like they are. We’re boy and boy.”

Jongin parts his lips to say something, but nothing comes out. The American sitcoms he used to watch on the television, where it’s only romantic comedies on the Saturday mornings. He thinks back to being young and alone in the isolated living room, watching the subtitles and flickering back to the faces of the couple, a _man and a woman._ How people gushed at them on the streets and complimented on how beautiful of a couple they are, and cue the fake audience laughter when the man makes a witty joke and the woman retorts.

A man and a woman.

“But this is Yeonhui-dong,” Jongin tries again, though the spirit in him is nothing but a dim candlelight. “They don’t judge.”

Chanyeol pats the side of his cheek, affection seeping through his apologetic smile. “You’re right. But it’s all overwhelming.” He leans in, and Jongin thinks it’s for a kiss. Instead, he rests his forehead on his, their breaths of mint mixing in with each other, creating hot air on each others’ skins. “And you don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve bad attention.”

“But I want to be with you.” Jongin blinks, though he’s not as confused anymore.

Chanyeol just shakes his head, foreheads bumping with each other. “Let’s sleep, Jongin. I’ll be going in with you tomorrow.”

“You are?” Jongin asks excitedly, all the tension in the room dispersing. He lets Chanyeol tuck him in beside him, before the latter slumps down too, leaving his glasses on the nightstand before the light turns off. “Are you sure, hyung? Everyone is still talking about it.”

Though he can’t see him, he can feel Chanyeol shaking his head.

“You shouldn’t be fighting for me.” They’re both drowsy. “Let’s sleep."

♕♕♕

“Hey, wake up.”

It’s not Sehun’s voice, and he has to understand that. It’s not January anymore, in the way his best friend would rip off the wool blanket that leaves him itchy, and drag him off to the showers. It’s not an abrupt wake up call, but a gentle voice thick with somnolence close to his ear. Jongin stirs, clutching the blanket closer to his chest.

The same voice chuckles. “That’s my shirt, Jongin.”

Jongin’s eyes fly open, and he realizes how close their faces are together. Thrown off, he jumps back in surprise and bumps heads with Chanyeol. The other man grunts and holds his forehead.

“Oops!” Jongin squeaks, watching as Chanyeol rubs his forehead ruefully. “G-Good morning hyung!”

Chanyeol boyishly grins. His teeth are so perfect and white that it pulls Jongin in, mesmerized. “You know, we’re dating. You don’t have to use formalities with me. Just Chanyeol is okay. I’m okay with that.”

 _We’re dating._ The idea slaps Jongin across the face like a morning wake up. It hasn’t really dawn on him that there’s a word for what they are, what they’re doing. _Chanyeol is my boyfriend,_ he thought, creeping realization tightening a hold on him. _Chanyeol is my boyfriend._ Giddiness surges over him, and he pins himself against him in overwhelming happiness.

“Whoa,” Chanyeol manages to get out before toppling over. “Good morning to you too.”

Jongin beams into his ear. “We’re dating. We’re dating!”

Chanyeol chokes out a laughter. It sounds so pleasant. “We are, aren’t we?” Hesitation. A bit of apprehensive fear.

Jongin lets go, and wraps his arms around himself in a self-hug. “We’re dating, I’m dating you! You’re dating me!” he exclaims exultantly, bouncing up and down so much that the bed wiggles. “I’ve never dated anyone before. But I’m dating you! I’m so…” he trails off, and lets himself sit in his own bliss. “Happy. I’m so happy.”

Chanyeol looks startled. “You’ve never dated anyone before?” he asks, but there’s no teasing tone to him. Genuine question. “But you’re so lovable.”

Jongin’s insides get all gushy. “I’ve never dated,” he says. “Girls didn’t like me because I was weird and too skinny in high school. And I didn’t know how I felt about boys before. But I’m—I’m with you. I’m really with you!”

Chanyeol’s face light up with so much love that he pluck Jongin up without much struggle and coddles him with peppering kisses. “You’re so adorable,” he mutters, and Jongin writhes in giggles and laughter. “So cute. I’m so lucky. I, Park Chanyeol, is so lucky.”

_We’re dating._

They have a name for it now.

Chanyeol ushers him into the bathroom as he makes the bed. “Can I take a shower?” Jongin yells from the bathroom, clutching the guest towel close to his chest. He eyes the shower, bewildered. It seems so complex that Jongin isn’t sure what to do. At the little red house, the only real options were ‘cold’ and ‘not so cold’.

“Yeah, of course.” Chanyeol, padding his way to the bathroom in is carrying a basket of shampoo. “I didn’t know which one you used. I have lavender, I bought it because I…you said you liked the smell.” He looks flustered, setting it down on the cabinet. “Do you take hot showers?”

Jongin nods. “Is that okay?”

Chanyeol smiles, and turns on the shower head. As he is about to leave, Jongin reaches out and clasps his hand in his desperately. Out of reflex. “Wait.”

Chanyeol blinks. “Huh?”

Jongin looks down at his feet instead of Chanyeol—his _boyfriend_ —so the latter won’t see how pink his cheeks are. He has been blushing more often nowadays, and he’s not sure if it’s really a good thing.

Jongin takes a deep breath.

“CanyoustaywithmeI’mafraidofgettingaToddattackandslippingandcausingyoutroublepleasestaywithmeandholdmyhandI’msorry.”He rushes it out in one single breath that leaves him choking for air in the end. He looks, expecting Chanyeol to laugh and reject him. Instead, he is greeted with an elfish smile and a nod.

“You’re so cute,” Chanyeol says, his voice breathy and airy. “Of course, of course I can. How do you want me to do it?”

Jongin looks at the running shower. “Can you hold my hand when I’m in there?”

“Yes.”

Jongin nods slowly, face still burning red. Chanyeol clutches on the towel for him and Jongin realizes he is left with changing in front of Chanyeol.

Wordlessly, he secures his eyes shut and unbuttons his shirt, his hands clumsy and struggling to unbutton. The small button keeps slipping out of his grasp and he whimpers in frustration when the first button won’t come undone. Irritated, Jongin covers his face, feeling the heat of his skin.

“I’m so ungraceful,” he murmurs into his palm, and hears Chanyeol chuckle. He stands up close to Jongin, tugging his hands away and putting them on his waist. He never understood how _bold_ Chanyeol is until now.

“I’ll help,” he says, nearly inaudible. With his hands he undoes each button, starting from the collar to the bottom. Jongin swallows, his stomach tousling around and he’s screaming in his thoughts. _So intimate._ Jongin isn’t sure where to look, afraid of looking up at his lips. Instead, he stares at the skin between his jaw and neck.

The way Chanyeol’s fingers brush across his skin as they skitter down to unbutton leaves him unraveled.

Chanyeol pulls off the shirt for him and folds it up, eyes flickering up and down him until they meet his eyes, gentle and affectionate. “You’ve been eating well,” he notes, sounding relieved. Jongin nods, and jerks a little out of surprise when Chanyeol leans in and gives him a peck on the mouth.

Shaking, Jongin wiggles out of his pants and underwear before hurrying into the shower, feeling exposed. Under the hot water that immediately wets his hair, he sticks out a reluctant hand, which is encased with Chanyeol’s. The shower head beats down with steaming hot water on him, but he likes the way it scorches his skin. Occasionally he lets go of Chanyeol’s hand to run his hair with shampoo, only to clasp onto it with his wet hand. Chanyeol doesn’t say anything about it though, just squeezes it tightly.

Jongin is expecting a Todd attack right now, shutting his eyes from the soap and water, and from the possibility of opening them to distortion reality. He waits, and waits.

Nothing.

When the water runs him off clean, Chanyeol helps turn the shower head for him. Jongin, slicked with water rips his hand away from him and covers his body shamefully. Chanyeol, taken aback, looks at him worryingly. Handing him the towel which Jongin gladly takes, Chanyeol crouches down until his knees meets the ledge of the bath tub.

“Your body is beautiful, Jongin.” Chanyeol sounds so serious and sincere, that Jongin meets his eyes. “You don’t have to feel as if you have to hide your skin away from me. I don’t mind that you have bruises all over your body or any scars. You're beautiful.”

“Stop,” Jongin blurts out, covering his face with the towel. “Stop saying such nice things, I am going to turn red again.” Chanyeol’s laugh is so pleasant that he doesn’t cower away when it gets closer, the older man taking the towel from his, unfolding it to wrap around his wet body.

He helps Jongin out of the shower.

“I’ll leave you to change,” Chanyeol says gently. “I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me.” Another kiss to the mouth. And the door shuts, and Jongin is alone.

Jongin fumbles into his clothes, already wearing his dance belt so he doesn’t have to change in the theatre’s rooms. The mirror is foggy, but he wipes it away with his wrist. His cheeks are flushed and so is his nose. He shrinks from his reflection, wondering what is about him that keeps Chanyeol kissing him here and there.

He peers into the bedroom, seeing Chanyeol hurry into his work clothes; his sweater vest, combed hair and his glasses in _noir._ Jongin looks down at himself sheepishly, realizing how childish and young he looks standing next to how classic Chanyeol looks. However, that insecurity dies down when Chanyeol looks back with a smile, turning and offering his hand to Jongin.

“You ready to go?” Chanyeol asks, his briefcase in hand. Jongin’s heart throbs a bit too painfully, thinking about the rumors and sickening gossip about Chanyeol. “Yoora already left for work…so I’ll try to make breakfast.” He offers an apologetic grin.

“It’s okay, we can grab something on the go. Jongin grabs his duffel bag and pulls out the medication he has to take. Chanyeol’s eyes glances towards them but says nothing, and gravitates to him until his chest up against his back, arms wrapped around his waist.

“Sorry I keep touching,” says Chanyeol. “It’s my way of letting myself out for these past few months.” He kisses behind the ear, and Jongin sinks back into him.

All this touching, Jongin is already used to touching. The way the men in Hongdae touched his thigh, and women’s hands too close to his crotch. He’s used to Sehun slinging his arm across his shoulder, Minseok playfully punching his shoulder, and Soojung slipping her arm through his to get ex-boyfriends jealous. He’s used to Luhan, and all of his touching. Ex-touchings.

But there’s something different about Chanyeol’s.

“I’m going to leave with wet hair,” Jongin declares when they’re downstairs, pills in his system with a side of water. Chanyeol eyes him questioningly. “I like the way it feels. Makes me feel less dizzy.”

“You might get sick,” Chanyeol says, frowning.

Jongin struggles to get on his shoes. “It’s basically spring, I’m okay.”

Chanyeol doesn’t protest anymore, but watches him as he ties his shoes and stand up, all perky. “Do you want to drive or take the subway?” he asks, keeping his eyes leveled. “Either way is fine, whatever you like.”

Jongin opens the door for both of them. It’s almost strange to see it sunny in Yeonhui. Yeonhui always gets the rut of the weather; cloudy and awfully silent. He thinks the birds are chirping, or maybe it’s just Old Noona down the street belching out her favorite songs.

“Today is my big practice,” Jongin says excitedly. He tries to ignore what happened between him and Yixing, Luhan, and Ryeowook. “It’s with all of the cast and corps and primas.”

“I heard from Jongdae you got casted to soloist now. I’m so proud.”

Jongin grins. “I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t feel anything different.”

“That’s okay.” Chanyeol pushes up his glasses, and checks the time. “You think I’m allowed to watch the rehearsals?”

Jongin looks at their feet. His sneakers are all beaten up and scrawled with sharpie, and Chanyeol’s are dress shoes. Age difference. Style difference. “I don’t know, what if they say bad things about you?” he asks, a bit petrified at the thought. “You’ll get hurt.”

“That’s okay.”

He seems like he means it too, because his face doesn’t change.

The subway ride is mostly quiet, and he doesn’t see Luhan or Sehun. There’s no Lu performing for the crowd of busy goers on the ride, with his plies and fancy spins just to impress. He doesn’t see a scoffing Sehun, who would tap his feet to the beat of former songs they danced to.

It’s just him and Chanyeol, and it’s so peaceful.

“What should I do?” Jongin asks helplessly, sinking further down on the plastic seats. “When I see Luhan?”

Chanyeol eyes him, lips a thin line but his voice still fragile. “What do you want him to do?”

Jongin wants him to do a lot of things. To stop spreading lies. To stop touching him. To stop smoking, even if he’s a faker. To stop doing his ‘street shits’. To stop excessively drinking. To go back to twenty-three-year-old Luhan, who used to smile like he was happy.

“I don’t know.” Lie.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Mr. Lee’s stare. The one who sold his shop for his daughter’s tuition. His snarl is painted with disgust when his hooded eyes catches the way Chanyeol cradles Jongin’s hand in his lap. Jongin shuts his eyes. _It’s okay. It’s fine._

The walk to the theatre rests in the most calming ways. There’s no mushing cigarette butts in the concrete, or angry swears at other passersby. There’s no more Mr. Lee in the streets, but maybe it’s because everyone's too busy trying to get to their workplace. The theatre is getting closer, and Jongin’s legs start to feel like rubber, and his neck throbs thinking about Ryeowook.

Chanyeol pauses at the doors, a maelstrom of emotions smashing against each other on his face before a shake of his head. He opens the door for them both, holding it like a gentleman. Jongin eyes him warily as they walk together, waiting— _wanting_ him to just halt and turn back and leave.

They keep walking.

The fake statue of _David_ shadows over them when they hurry by it, and there’s a few dancers in the lobby just wandering around mindlessly. A few of them make an audible gasp, that has Jongin’s stomach churning and Chanyeol’s hands clench and unclench.

“I’m going to meet Jongdae,” Chanyeol says out of the blue when they meet the corridors, the one with ballet dancers painted on canvases and hoisted on the decorative walls. “I missed a lot, almost a week. I should’ve been fired, but I guess Joonmyun has other plans for me.” He sounds bitter, but it’s only for a moment.

“Oh, okay.” Jongin doesn’t want to admit that he’s feeling disappointed at Chanyeol’s departure. “I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol says, sincere. “Good luck, Jongin. I’m proud of you.”

“For my role?”

“For a lot of things. Everything.”

♕♕♕

It’s terribly awkward in the dressing rooms.

Everyone’s eyes are on him, and in Jongin’s thoughts, there is a chaotic mess of the orchestra pit, screaming and throwing around music sheets. This is how it feels. Jongin’s eyes dart back and forth between his locker, which is block by this unruly seeming boy, gum obnoxiously loud in his mouth and freckles dotting across his face. Jongin thinks he has seen him before, in the sweaty crowd of the corps. His heart tugs a little, when he realizes that in fact, he doesn’t know everyone.

“Excuse me,” Jongin says, stopping in front of his lockers. The boy tilts his head, and blows a minty bubble. He’s not Korean, Jongin can tell that much, when Hansol mutters something that sounds like French to him, and the bubble gum boy grins. He moves away from the locker, chomping on his gum loudly and looking as if he has a secret.

When he shakes his lock open, crumpled up pamphlets clutter out of his locker, and a choir of snorts and hoots pool through the room. Jongin fumbles with all of the pamphlets and rolled up magazines.

“I heard you liked magazines,” someone calls out, and Jongin thinks his name is Jun. He doesn’t know anymore. A chain of cackles breaks through the sweaty room, of skinny men in ballet leggings and flats.

ELEMENT, a Singaporean magazine with the front cover of two men kissing each other, the subtitle ‘LOVE IS LOVE’ scrawled out in sharpie. The two men are completely in the nude, looks of intimacy and lust in the models’ eyes. His hands tremble, and his eyes start to get blurry.

DNA, another torn up magazine too damaged for Jongin to really make out, but he sees a glimpse of private parts and a man kissing two other men. By now, his eyes are too cloudy for him to make out any more pictures.

THE NAKED ISSUE.  
REVGAY. STEAM ROOM STORIES.  
OH HELLO BOYS.  
DIVE IN.  
FETISH SHOOT.

The pamphlets. References to mental patients at nearby hospitals, who to contact for mental help from therapists, and numbers from doctors inked onto glossy paper.

Everyone is laughing.

Finding in him to breathe and let out a choked laugh, Jongin rips apart the magazines and pamphlets hastily, and each tear he got comes with a paper cut, and more disgusting laughter.

“Aren’t you dating a man?” Someone coos, nudging at Jongin. “We spent a lot of money on those magazines! Maybe your pedophile of a boyfriend and you can do pornography!”

_How did they—_

— _know?_

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jongin spits out, and coughs on his own saliva. Everyone is shoving at him teasingly. “Stop it. Stop it, please, stop it.” He brings his hands to his ears, nails digging into the skin between his hair and ear. _StoP IT, STOP IT, STOp IT, STOP iT._

“Isn’t that why you defended that Chanyeol? Sick bastard!”

“Ryeowook was damn right!”

“Our theatre’s a fucking freak show!” someone shrieks, and more laughter erupts. They sound like devils chatting. “Luhan is enough of a _faggot,_ we got you too?” The man fakes an intake of breath. He unbuttons his shirt as the other dancers cheered him on. “Don’t you like this? Are you always staring at other men in the dressing rooms, all this time? You sick freak—”

The door opens with a slam, wood to plaster.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?”

The male dancers who are partially naked swears like a sailor, scrambling to grab their towels or pants. Sojin stands right in the middle, eyes narrowed and her hair down for once. She looks as if she did in her ballet photographs, when she was younger and in prime. There’s a dangerous tilt to her rosy lips, twisted in a snarl as she stalks through the middle of the men’s dressing room.

“No girls allowed in here,” one of them snaps. “Abide the damn rules, Sojin- _ssi._ ”

“Shut the hell up,” she retorts, her bite more violent than his. The dancers make room for her unwillingly as she whirls on them with accusing fingers. “Deductions in salaries. All of you!”

She isn’t done talking when the doors slams again, a blur of grayish-black hair bursting, white coat and all. Jongin flinches when a hand grabs his wrist, whimpering. He looks up, a red-faced Chanyeol with nothing but spite in his eyes and a chest going up and down too fast. He shoulders every out of the way violently, holding Jongin up by the doors. Everyone is almost silent, except for Jongin’s choked sobs and Sojin grabbing one boy by the shirt.

“Get your hands off me!” the boy roars, the same one who stripped himself of his shirt and threatened Jongin to touch his skin. “You’re no instructor, you’re a throw-away! A throw-away dancer past your years! Don’t touch me!” He squeaks when Sojin twists his shirt harder, to the point where Jongin thinks he hears the hem hissing with a rip.

“I’ve been an official instructor here for weeks,” she said flatly, letting go with him but not without a push. “I am reporting all of you to Joonmyun. Reductions in salaries and perhaps even _worst_ from him.”

No one moves, no one says anything.

“Get out,” someone says. And Jongin jumps a little, the familiar deep voice of Chanyeol now ragged with malice. Jongin buries his face into Chanyeol’s sweater, the material scratching his skin. He doesn’t mind, because the throbbing thoughts of those magazines ripped apart in his locker takes a bigger stab. A deeper one.

Everyone is uneasy now, Jongin can see out of the corner of his eye. The boy Sojin had snapped at is blue in the face, his shirt stretched and his hands twitching at his side. Sojin is walking around, getting a close look at everyone and scribbling their names down on her clipboard, not without spitting nasty swears into each one of their faces.

He has never seen Sojin so frightening.

“Get out when you are done,” Chanyeol says, eerily calm. His heartbeat is erratic, and Jongin knows because his ear is pressed up to his chest. _Du-dun. Du-dun, du-dun, du-dun._ “Get out now, or I’ll bring it up with someone higher than the director.”

Only a few of them shuffle out.

“ _Get the fuck out!”_

Jongin sniffles into Chanyeol’s shirt. His shouts, everyone’s shouts makes his ears hurt. Makes his stomach lurch forward until he’s content he’ll throw up. Vomit on the wet floors.

The rooms are emptied now, and the smell of cheap cologne and sweat still sticks to the air like leeches. One of the smaller boys Jongin had saw earlier stays, his feet rubbing up against his ankles nervously. Chittaphon. New kid. Replacement.

“Thanks, Chittaphon,” Soojin says tiredly, all the energy in her drained and she’s back to seeming exhausted. “Oh, Ten, right. You prefer to be called Ten, don’t you?”

“I…I do.” Ten makes eye contact with Jongin, eyes painted with genuine concern. “Is…is boy—Jongin good? Ok?” His Korean is wobbly, but the message gets across the room.

“I’m okay.” It’s a lie, but Jongin manages a weak smile. “I’m good.”

Sojin gives Ten a pat on the back, who looks all shaken up. “Ten here came to me and Dr. Park, er, Chanyeol-ssi. I mean Chanyeol-ssi. He was very panicky and told us you were having issues in the locker rooms.” She frowns, blatant frustration on her skin. “He says it happened yesterday too. Why didn’t you tell me? What happened with Yixing was bad enough.”

Chanyeol tenses up. “What happened with Yixing?”

“Nothing,” Jongin says on the spur of the moment, before Ten or Sojin answer for him. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

Chanyeol squeezes him, and they both know Sojin and Ten are eying them curiously. He doesn’t blame them. Chanyeol kneels, looking at the now shredded up magazines and pamphlets. His back contorts, and Jongin gnaws on his sleeves anxiously. Waiting for Chanyeol to snap.

Sojin murmurs something about ‘for kicks’. “You’ve been getting a lot of attention lately,” she says unhelpfully, her face a palette of bemusement streaked with a grimace. “Honestly, you should do something about it Jongin, or they’ll keep coming at you. Trust me, I’ve seen it happened before. It’s disgusting.”

Chanyeol crumples the magazines in his hands, hurling them at the wastebasket with such force that the small thing topples over with a _titter._ “It’s all that Luhan’s fault,” he says callously, kicking at the benches before stuffing his hands into his pocket, throwing his head back, as if the whole damn world has embitter him. “It’s all his fault and he’s going off scot-free? Is that how it works here? In this theatre?”

The question is aimed at Sojin when he whirls on her. Ten slumps down on the seats, praying in Thai.

“Stop, Chanyeol.” Jongin wipes away at his face for what seems to be the fiftieth time this week. “Give it a rest, Luhan is a different.”

“I don’t think he’s getting off ‘scot-free’, I mean, have you seen Ryeowook?” she asks dryly, seeming rather amused at the thought. She shakes her head at Jongin’s perplexed expression. “I think you should just concentrate on the ballet, I don’t really care for external things like… _dating_ or whatnot, but Jongin is a good kid.” She shrugs, stuffing the clipboard under her arm.

“Not a kid,” Jongin says, hushed under his breath. “I’m not a kid.”

Sojin, a little surprised, just nods. A sisterly smile. “Right, you’re an adult now. But you’re always going to be lil’ Myrtha of the Wilis to me.” She offers a hand to Chanyeol, an almost joking kind of gesture. “I’m Jongin’s personal instructor. He calls me big sis, too. I guess you’re the one that has his attention nowadays.”

Chanyeol, maybe if he wasn’t so caught up in the magazines and pamphlets, would’ve blush.

“Yeah, it’s nice to meet you.”

Sojin shoots Jongin a look. “Joonmyun wants to see you, by the way.” Chanyeol tautens, one of the pamphlets in his grip in long strands of tattered glossy paper. “It’s about the group rehearsals. I guess he just wants to go over some things with you because there’s some indie news outlet that wants to record the ‘behind the scenes’ of whatever the fuck this is.”

“Recording?” Jongin asks faintly, and his stomach churns. “I didn’t know…”

Sojin scowls. “I didn’t know either. He called it his surprise, I called it an asshole move.” She has the band-aid on her lip to show it, too. With that, she beckons Ten to follow her out of the dressing rooms.

It’s just them two.

“I should’ve been the one to grab their collars and yank at them,” Chanyeol says lowly, down casting his eyes. “Those things in your locker should’ve been for me. Not you—you, _you_ don’t deserve this.” He drills his foot onto one of the magazine pages of nudity, until the paper fades and it’s nothing but colorful paper.

“I’m really fine, Chanyeol.” He sighs, holding himself up. He _is_ fine, he tells himself, because his Todd isn’t acting up. It’s not acting up. “There’s nothing wrong with me. They didn’t do anything.”

“They sexually _harassed_ you,” Chanyeol snaps, standing over him with his simple white coat and black-rimmed glasses. Jongin thinks silver-rimmed would just be as beautiful. Gold, too. “You know what that is? Jongin, they harassed you on your sexuality.”

“I just like boys and girls,” he says sparsely, trying to limit his words. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Chanyeol hangs his head between his shoulders, as he crouches down until he’s on his knees in front of Jongin, eyes bright with what he thinks are tears. His hands, oh, the hands that Jongin loves so much, comes up to cup his cheek. Jongin’s chest must be red with exertion, and swirls of all his former corps members unbuttoning their shirts, teasing him.

“There’s nothing with you. There’s nothing wrong with us,” Chanyeol, Chanyeol good with his words. Chanyeol, Chanyeol is now struggling to make a coherent sentence. “But people don’t think like that, like us. Sometimes I wonder if you’re better off dating perhaps Soojung or Sojin—”

“Soojung is dating Minseok,” Jongin interjects irritably. Something about Chanyeol talking about other loves makes him feel too weak in the skin. “Sojin has a husband. At least, I think so. I don’t know, or maybe it’s a boyfriend. I’m dating you, hyung. I don’t want to date a woman, because you’re not a woman. So it’s…” he trails off, thinking of the right words, “it’s okay if they make fun of me for it. It’s okay because at the end of the day you’ll be the one who is holding my hand like now. So it’s okay. It’s worth the trouble.”

“You are,” shuttering breath. “Wise. Wise beyond your years, Jongin.” Chanyeol strokes his cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Heads against each others. Hearts, too. Chanyeol’s feet squeak some it rubs up against the matted pamphlets and torn magazine strips at the bottom of his shoes. Jongin stands up, a little wobbly. He won’t mention that he’s a bit lightheaded. That he may need his medication. He grips onto Chanyeol’s arms, who returns his touch by holding him by the shoulders, soothing squeezes.

Jongin bites his lip down so hard that he thinks he’ll draw blood. The men in nude, they were gay, that he knew. _Do I have to be like that? Naked and sexual?_ He shakes his head at the thought, looking down at himself. A little wispy body of tan lines from being outside and shirts with small moth holes through the front and bag. He doesn’t mind them, because he likes to stick his fingers through them sometimes. But he doesn’t look like those men on the covers shoved at him, he doesn’t look like them at all.

_Am I supposed to?_

Jongin hugs himself tightly, and Chanyeol looks down, slowing down his steps until he matches his.

“Are you alright?” Chanyeol asks gently, looking him up and down for any bruises, any cuts, anything. “What’s on your mind?”

Jongin shakes his head. “Nothing.” He nudges the other man, his _boyfriend._ “Go back to the physio, I think Jongdae misses his doctor bro.” He grins in the way his upper lip curls in.

Chanyeol seems a bit wary. “I’m going with you. To Joonmyun,” he pushes up his glasses, “I don’t trust anyone at this theatre. And neither should you.” He brushes the tip of his finger across the base of Jongin’s throat. The bruises weren’t really bruises, maybe just skin pressures because they’ve all gone away. “I just want you to get away from all of this. All of these people and the toxic environment.”

Jongin thinks that in between ‘these people’ and ‘toxic environment’, the older man adds in a ‘get away from me’.

“Go back to the physio, I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine.” He leans in until the rough material of Chanyeol’s jacket rubs into his cheek. “I’m okay with them calling me out. I think I’m supposed to just not care.”

Chanyeol sighs, covering his face with the hands Jongin loves. “That’s not what you should do,” he says wearily. “You don’t just let people go around shoving their homophobic slurs at you.”

Jongin’s eye twitches. It’s not irritation, it’s not. “What about you?” he can’t help but ask. “You don’t just let people go around shoving their rumors and gossips at you, hyung. So why? Why do you let them.”

“It’s different.”

“Hyung, it’s not!”

Chanyeol wraps his hands around Jongin’s wrists, the hands Jongin loves. The younger man yelps not because it hurts, but because of how vulnerable they both seem. “It’s different because it’s you here. _You_ don’t deserve to be pushed around by slurs and rumors. I’m different, I’m a lot more different here on the side of rumors and gossip.”

Jongin frowns. “You’re lying.” He shrugs Chanyeol off of him. He looks so young, and Jongin can’t ever stress that enough. The way his glasses are falling off the bridge of his nose and his lips are an accidental rose. “You’re not different, you’re on the same side of all the rumors. On my side. We’re on the same side.”

Chanyeol stares at him, wide-eyed.

“It’s you and me against the universe.” Jongin throws his hands in the air, getting on his tippy-toes even though he doesn’t have to. He plants a chaste kiss on Chanyeol’s lips which are dry and not as rosy as they seem to be. But he doesn’t mind, because he still melts against it every time.

“And what’s the universe?” Chanyeol asks, almost hesitantly. His eyes are still on him, looking down and flickering between lips and eyes. He’s holding Jongin’s elbows right now, clasped against his lower rib cage. Jongin thinks back to the ribcage that he used to adore off of Sehun and Luhan, running his hands up and down the sensitive skin just for the ripple of bones.

_King and prince of rib cages._

_Sick creatures._

Now he understands.

“Everyone that hurts you. Everyone that makes us sad.” Jongin leans in and rests his forehead on his chest. “All the royalties of bare bones and this theatre. You and me.”

“You and me? That’s a bold statement.”

“I’m tired of being a mellowed boy. Help me be bold.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

♕♕♕

“I’m fine,” Jongin says for the fifth time. “Please just go to work. Joonmyun isn’t going to hurt me.” Chanyeol has an iron grip on Jongin’s hand, eyes hardened but the lines around his mouth don’t exist. It’s a pout, and Jongin finds it endearing.

“But Joonmyun—”

“—has known me for years. It’s just about the roles.” He’s lying to himself now, but that’s fine.

Chanyeol looks down at his hands, knuckles splotched right and the veins protruding in the way Jongin wants to poke at them. His face is a twist of emotions, mostly negative.

“I’m afraid I’ll do something if you leave me alone,” he says hoarsely. “I’m afraid I’ll _swing_ …” he trails off, looking rather ill.

Jongin shakes his head, and brings up both of their intertwined hands to kiss. He’s not afraid of being in the theatre like this, affectionate and loving. His stomach clenches up at the thought of those magazines in his locker, but his heart is okay. His head is okay.

Chanyeol is okay, so he’s okay.

“I can be your Kyungsoo,” Jongin suggests, running his free hand across the bumps of Chanyeol’s knuckles. “I can be that medication. Your therapy boy, I can be that.”

At this, Chanyeol yanks his hand away, startling them both. “No.”

Jongin holds his hands to himself, staring at him with owl eyes. “No?”

“You don’t deserve to be someone else for me.” Chanyeol’s voice is as rocked as his eyes. “You are not my medication or my _therapy boy._ ” It’s not that he’s yelling. His voice is calm.

Jongin remains silent.

“You can stay by my side, and that’s all I would ever want in this new life.”


	16. A Poor Man's Translation

Joonmyun has two offices, Jongin has come to learn.

One is in the theatre, where his paperwork is stacked tall and photographs of ex-lovers adorn the walls. It’s wedged in between the storage room where all the pointe shoes are kept and a luxurious bathroom that’s really only for his use. It looks normal enough, with potted plants drying up and one of those leather chairs that Joonmyun likes to spin around on. The other is the one in his penthouse, consisting of a bedroom and maybe a glass of red wine for the night.

He knocks on the oak door, fliers plastered on the wood, of reminders from Sojin and the other instructors. They’re left unread. Jongin hears a grunt from inside, and he allows himself to open the door. In an instant, a horrifying stench of booze hits his face. The office has a dark elegance to it, with an empty whiskey bottle on display with hundreds of ballet medals and trophies from the WBC. All from his past life, Jongin thinks, before he went batshit crazy.

Joonmyun is sprawled across the leather armchair, his silky blouse stained with something dark on the sleeve. His head is tossed back, a lollipop in his mouth. Jongin rubs his hands up and down his thighs, palms and nape sweaty.

“You’re here?” Joonmyun asks lazily. He turns his head to the side, and his mouth is stained with the red dye from the lollipop. “You took so long. I called for you twenty minutes ago.”

It’s hard to believe that this is Kim Joonmyun, the mastermind behind the Seoul Art Theatre.

“I’m sorry,” Jongin says softly. “I had a bit of an accident.”

“We’re all accidents,” Joonmyun says dryly. He slips the candy out of his mouth with a _pop,_ and tosses it onto a desk full of paperwork. The remaining of the sticky sweet slaps onto the manila folders. “Today is the big day. Today is _full_ rehearsals. And soon, it’ll be showtime.”

He gestures Jongin to sit down on the chair in front of him, and Jongin does just that. The older man sits up straight, rolling up his sleeves. Jongin catches sight of bloody streaks down the man’s arm, all coming from battered knuckles and a jagged gash the size of Joonmyun’s cherry red lips. The blood is all crusted, and some of it flakes off onto the desk when he moves his wrist around.

“Joonmyun,” Jongin eyes the Director’s hand appallingly. “Your _hand—_ ” Joonmyun blinks, and looks down as if it’s the first time he has ever seen it. A wide smile pools across the lower half of his face, all teeth and bright lips.

“Oh, isn’t it pretty?” he coos, admiring his hand as one may admire an engagement ring. “Looks almost fake, doesn’t it?” he asks, and picks at a dried patch of scab, until bright red oozes out of it.

Jongin blanches, and shrinks back into his chair. “What happened?” he asks, voice timid. Joonmyun is still seemingly infatuated with his own beat-up hand, clenching and unclenching his fist a few times. “Hyung, I’ll go get Jongdae-ssi to bandage it up for you.”

“No need.” Joonmyun shrugs his shoulders back and sticks out his bottom lip. “I just don’t tolerate my naughty children bickering at the theatre. Gives me a headache.” He fakes a gasp and clutches his head.

Jongin feels lightheaded.

Joonmyun kisses the heads of his knuckles.

“You’re all in your twenties, thirties, and me, in my forties.” Joonmyun certainly doesn’t look forty. He looks childishly young. “But you’re all children to me.” He winks, and rests his chin on his hand.

 _All children to me,_ Jongin has heard that before.

He remembers Joonmyun declaring himself as some sort of sick father figure on a ceremonial night, the kind that seems like an initiation to a dance cult. The kind that requires ties and too-big suits on little boys. He was a man who tightened the ties on young adolescents, including Sehun and Jongin. And when he did, it became clear to them that the tie was more like a noose, both literally and metaphorically.

He had been told, that bigger and thicker knots, of Windsor, meant business. It also meant too many nights of popping caffeine pills with coffee, hoping it'd keep him alive or dead during the latest rehearsals. Small, thin knots meant that you were freer; easier to take off.

Sehun wore his ties thin, or sometimes not at all.

Jongin sported the bigger knots, even when he's not in a suit; the ceremony that ended six years ago and counting.

“Why am I here?”

Joonmyun blinks. He staggers to his feet—which are without shoes—and slinks himself across the desk, pushing over some of the paperwork and an undone Rubix Cube. Amused and gleeful in all the wrong ways as he stares down at Jongin.

“You’ve changed a lot since the last time I told you that you’ve changed.” He taps his mouth, and his finger gets all sticky. “And when was that? Oh, February. And it’s April now, right? I don’t know, time is a man-made thing. Do you remember what I told you? You lie more. You’re less clingy and now, you apologize less. If any at all, except for that Park Chanyeol.”

Jongin tenses up. “Hyung,” he starts off, keeping his words short but not so sweet, just so he can’t hear him stutter. “I can explain.”

Joonmyun shrugs it off. “Frankly, I don’t give two shits who you date. Woman, man. Just don’t fuck an animal, not in my vicinity. That’s not what you’re here for.”

Jongin gazes at the battered up hand, that is swinging around the air as if the entire fist belonged to a toddler.

“I’ve always seen you as my son. You remind me so much of Lu. Well, little Lu.” Joonmyun sounds wistful. “Before he turned twenty-three years old and stopped smiling. He became less of my child-figure and more, well, _a devastating dancer._ It was a win-win situation.”

Joonmyun sits upright, and grins wildly at Jongin.

The mastermind of the Seoul Art Theatre.

“You want to know why he’s still a soloist and not a prima dancer?” he asks, as if offering up the secrets of the world. “It’s because he’s damned. Our theatre’s most beautiful sin. But these Koreans don’t understand art. They see a man who's from another birth country with drugs in his pocket and cigarettes in his mouth and call him a mistake. He is, we’re all mistakes here, but _Koreans don’t understand._ Disregarding a fuck-up’s talent, even when he can go on pointe shoes and look like an angel.”

“Where are you going with this?” Jongin asks, his voice low as he keeps his eyes on his lap now. His hands are trembling, his arms streaked red with all his nervous habits. Clawing at himself, rubbing at himself. “I don’t see why Luhan has anything to do with this.”

Joonmyun laughs. It sounds disgusting. “And you know what else is my favorite thing about Lu?” he asks, beaming. “He’s everyone’s lovely scapegoat.”

Jongin thinks time moves too slowly in here, if it even moved at all.

Joonmyun hops off the table and grabs his wrist, and Jongin tries to yank it away. It doesn’t budge, and burns a bit instead in Joonmyun’s death grip. Joonmyun drags both of them to the door on the left where the storage room is. Rather than opening it, he tells Jongin to hush as he pulls back a long strip of duct tape from the wall, revealing a nasty hole in the wall.

“They’re always meeting in the storage room every week. They think I don’t know.” Joonmyun sounds almost hurt. “It’s my daily Friday entertainment though, so I punched a hole in the wall. Keepin’ it sneaky.”

Jongin feels sick all over, his skin too hot for the room and his sweat sticking to his clothes. He should be out practicing. He should with Sojin or Ten and thank the two of them. He should be with Chanyeol in the physio, who will hold him in all the right ways.

Joonmyun ushers Jongin to the front. He pushes his neck down so that Jongin is at eye-level with the hole. Plaster and dust are building up in the crack, so breathing is hardly a reasonable option here.

Joonmyun looks at the clock. “Two more minutes usually.”

Jongin squints through the hole. There’s stacks of boxes and a wall full of pointe shoes and flats. There’s masking tape under each shoe box labeled with someone’s name. The light is an awful yellow in there, and it reminds him of the urine-colored lights in the bathroom at home, if he can still call it that.

The door of the storage room clicks shut, and in shuffles two people. One hunched like a sloth, and the other with a lean and flawless figure, except say for the bony wrists and sharp collar bones. Jongin holds his breath. He realizes he is looking through the wall behind a shelf, and the boxes that hinder his view are keeping him from being seen.

Joonmyun is unusually silent behind him.

One of them sits down aggressively on the boxes, whereas the sloth-like one slumps across the shelf. Jongin bites down on his tongue when he recognizes the dimple on his face and Yixing’s curve of the mouth. Yixing throws his head back, resting on the shelf of ballet shoes.

The man on the box grunts, and pulls out a cigarette pack.

“You’re going to get smoke in the place Sehun.” Yixing eyes at him with a cocked eyebrow, but accepts one when handed to him. Jongin nearly gasps, and would have have it not been for Joonmyun clamping his mouth shut with his hand. It’s sticky with candy, but Jongin is unable to complain.

“Let it fucking burn then,” Sehun snaps. “You hate this theatre anyways.”

He lights it up, and chucks the lighter at Yixing for his cigarette. Sehun rolls up his sleeves, puffing out smoke like it’s second nature. Sehun looks _different,_ the gentle tilt to his mouth sandpapered away and left with a edged snarl,his eyes narrowed into slits.

Jongin tries so hard not to bite down on Joonmyun’s hand. _Sehun?_ But Sehun doesn’t smoke so casually. Sehun doesn’t look like this at all. Yixing grins, and Jongin shivers, remembering the way he had tried to make Jongin bruise him. Get him out of the theatre. _Garden Boy._

“How are things this week?” Yixing asks when Sehun puts down his cigarette. Sehun scoffs and tilts his head back, and he can see a scatter of love bites across the skin, each one more violent than the other. “He still down?”

Sehun shrugs, or at least Jongin thinks he does. The boxes in the way are blocking his line of sight, but he can make out the side profile of Sehun’s face, the one that he traced with his fingers when they were little kids. He remembers every bump of bone on the cheeks and nose, and can dot any past-pimple scar, even if they’re not there anymore.

Sehun’s face, the one that Jongin can trace so easily, is twisted up with harsh slants of brows and a curled lip, all purple and red. He looks like a venomous snake, and Yixing seems rather bored.

“Jongin’s out of the house, it means I can talk to him more.” Jongin stiffens at his name. Sehun spits it out like dirt had lined his mouth. “But just because I can fuckin’ talk to him doesn’t mean he’ll talk to me. You know what he’s been saying? That bastard, spouting out Chinese when he’s high on the same street shit he smokes everyday.”

Sehun hurls the cigarette down on the floor, using his foot to smash it into ground until it’s nothing but dirtied filter and ash. He leans back and groans, raspy and thick.

“Sehun—” Jongin’s mouth is forced shut again when Joonmyun tightens his grip. He looks back frantically, and Joonmyun just shakes his head. Sehun looks up, curious by the sound. He turns his head away, and Jongin realizes he can’t see him anyways. _Sehun,_ he thinks desperately, _you’re not like this. You’re not like this at all._

“He thinks I can’t understand him, that shit.” Sehun racks his hand through his hair roughly, leaving charcoal black strands sticking up wildly, his mouth baring teeth and his eyes unstable. “我爱你, 我爱你, 我爱你. _Wǒ ài nǐ ài de fǎ shāo._ It’s the fucking same. Qīn'ài de, the same ‘ol ‘ _qīn'ài de’._ ” Sehun holds his head between his palms, a snarl ripping out from his mouth as Yixing just watches.

“Your Chinese is better nowadays,” Yixing says. “Learning it for me or him?”

Sehun raises his eyes to level Yixing’s. Jongin sucks in his breath. It’s so _familiar,_ in the way Sehun used to grin down at him in the earliest mornings, because birds don’t chirp in Yeonhui and the furnace doesn’t work. His smile quirky and hesitant always, but his eyes so affectionate in the ways Jongin never understood. They’re iron friends, even if it crosses the line into tentative lovers sometimes.

It’s the same look he’s pouring out to Yixing, even if it’s embed with underlining lust and loathe all at once.

“I don’t know at this point.” Sehun beckons for Yixing to come closer. Jongin thinks—screams to himself— _no, you have a girlfriend. Her name is Yoora and she is Chanyeol’s sister. She loves you._ It’s odd, the way Yixing falls under order even if eight years older. Yixing crouches down so that his knees brushes the boxes Sehun is sitting on top of. Neither of them move after that. “So tell me, why he said those things.”

“It’s just lost in translation,” Yixing says easily, like he has said it a few times. He probably has. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“What’s the point then,” Sehun picks at his nails. There’s dirt and dried blood under them, because he never listens to his dead mama who told him long nails make men cry. “To learning another language? I’ll never understand it.”

Instead, Jongin hears, ‘I’ll never understand you’.

Joonmyun is stifling his laughter behind him.

“Not everyone learns a language to translate sorrow into other words.” Yixing rolls his shoulders around. Sehun reaches out and rests his hand on the back of his neck. Yixing squirms only slightly, but his heavy breath stirs Sehun’s shirt. He’s tired; the hammock of dark flesh under his eyes plays the Devil’s Advocate when it comes to his, ‘ _I’m not tired’_ talk. “You’re just some masochist if that’s your intent.”

“You learned another language,” Sehun points out. His lips are chapped, and they’ll bleed if he rips the skin. “To say what? I’m sorry? That’s sorrow.”

“I”m sorry he hurt you.” Yixing rolls his lower lip into his mouth. He doesn’t look sorry. “He hurt me too, baby.”

“I wasn’t talking about that.”

Jongin remembers Joonmyun saying something about how Yixing has the benefits of knowing two languages to his heart. One of them is thinking in foreign words, because people like Sehun won’t ever read his thoughts.

“It’s okay,” Yixing says, his accent slipping out whenever he’s a fucking liar. “The things he has said. It’s just lost in translation.” Yixing leans in, slippery lips brushing past his ear. Jongin wants to pull away, and hurl himself at the door of Joonmyun’s office. _But you said you’re in love with Yoora._

_Don’t break her heart._

“Don’t touch me,” Sehun mutters, his voice slumped and empty. “Not right now.”

Yixing pouts, but doesn’t remove his hand from Sehun’s thigh. “You still mad about Jongin?”

Joonmyun’s muffled chuckles are more harsh now.

Sehun pulls his legs away, glaring at Yixing. “You promised. You fuckin’ promised me,” he seethes. “I told you to jack up the scales. But he’s now at perfect weight when I told you to convince him. How will I get the damn role now?”

Iron friends. They were iron friends.

Yixing’s eager gaze turns hard. “Give it up, Sehun.” His voice is cautious, switching from the teasing tone to that of an older man. “It’s not worth it. He’s already broken.”

Sehun laughs, it sounds like glass, jagged at the edges and ready to cut. Jongin’s hands falls from Joonmyun’s wrists, hanging helplessly at his side.

Were, iron friends.

“ _I_ _’m so sick of him_ ,” Sehun says between breathy laughter. “You heard he got soloist role? He’s above me, Xing. That retard of a kid is fuckin’ above me.”

 _It’s not true, it’s not true, it’S NOT TRUE._ Jongin turns so quickly that he’s sure his neck has almost snapped. Joonmyun’s face is passive, but his eyes are gleaming with a sickening joy, lips still sticky red with the lollipop. _It’s not true,_ he thinks faintly. _This isn’t my Sehun._

 _My Sehun._ Messy, tar black hair, and a crooked smile, lisp and all. His Sehun, the one who called them brothers after locking hands at the sweet age of twelve, both in itchy dance tights and too-small flats. His Sehun, who bonded with him over the pain of lost mothers and fathers. His Sehun, who crushed him into a hug when they found out they’d be in a family together, of Lu, Sehun, and him.

This is not his Sehun.

Yixing stands up, seemingly solemn. “You know baby, Luhan and I are what you call ‘best friends’. I, myself hate that term. But even if we stab each other’s back and fuck each other up for kicks—” he nods towards Sehun with a jerking chin, “we’re still there for each other.”

Sehun spits on the floor, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Jongin is a damn child. He’s not worth it.” Sehun looks down at his hands, which are balled up in a violent shake. His face is red, in the way Jongin knows is either from impatience or self-hate. “He’s not… he’s not worth it.”

Yixing stares at him for a few moments, and Jongin can only hear the ringing in his ears and Joonmyun’s breathing. _This isn’t my Sehun._ Yixing leans down and pecks Sehun’s lips and slips his hand through his pocket, snatching out the carton of Lucky Strikes and waves it around.

“No smoking, it’s bad for you.” He stuffs it in his coat pocket. Sehun’s face is shadowed by the poor light bulb. “Let Luhan do all the cancer drugs. He’s basically dying anyways.”

When Yixing is on his second stride to the metal storage door, Sehun makes a noise. “Wait,” he croaks. “The thing you said. You said it’s just lost in translation, and maybe that serves for some comfort here and there, because it’s a lot better to think that 我爱你 was just a poor man’s translation, and that Luhan didn’t really mean it back then. Because wǒ ài nǐ doesn’t mean ‘I love you’—no, that’s the thing lost in translation. It’s not the same, it’s not the fucking same.”

There’s an unspoken, _'right?’_ at the end of the sentence. His Sehun, Jongin thinks, his Sehun would say that.

“You done?” Yixing asks tiredly. “Get over Luhan. I did. I got over him long before, in Hong Kong.”

Sehun buries his face into his hands. Jongin can see the veins on the back of the hands. They look like his Sehun’s hands, but this is not his Sehun at all.

“I still,” Sehun exhales heavily. “I still remember the bits on TV, our sitcoms, where Luhan would laugh. I still remember his laughter at every part.”

Yixing scoffs and mutters something in Mandarin, and Jongin swears he sees Sehun flinch. When the door shuts, and Sehun is slumped across the storage room alone, the light flickers off. He swears he sees the lighter flicker and smoke from a brand new cancer stick, but it’s not the first time he has been tricked.

“Now finally,” Joonmyun whispers in his ear. “You know what heartbreak is.”

Maybe his Sehun never existed after all.


	17. One, Two, Three

Joonmyun covers the hole in the wall with the duct tape. When he lets go of Jongin’s mouth, the twenty-year-old slumps to the ground, skin cold and his tongue bloody. Joonmyun wipes his hands on his blouse with a frown, squinting and looking around for perhaps a wine opener or his glasses. Jongin inhales roughly, as if his throat and palate are lined with pin needles, the kind you stick in dolls. _It’s hard to breathe, it’s hard to breathe._

“Do you like red wine?” Joonmyun asks carelessly, fishing out a bottle opener from the jewelry box sitting on top of the table. “I mean, a glass won’t hurt you. Just a sip though because you don’t want to be tripping like a drunkard on the stage. Especially in front of your brothers and sisters.”

Jongin doesn’t answer.

“Ah, fuck.” Joonmyun peers into the bottle before taking a sniff. “I’m all out actually. How about Kavalan?”

Jongin stares at the hole in the wall, the duct tape hanging limply on it, barely holding up. _His Sehun._ A boy with hair just as black as any other in Yeonhui, except sometimes the plaster from the ceiling chips and nestles itself in his hair. Sehun’s hair looks like a starry night, with paint chips for constellations. His Sehun, with his ribcage protruding from under pasty skin that Jongin once envied. His Sehun, his best friend.

His Sehun, in love with Luhan.

Joonmyun sticks his hand in the air, waving around a shot glass and a bottle of Smirnoff. Jongin thinks he’s approaching him, but his vision is wavering too much to be much of any help. _His Sehun._ No, it’s not true. No, no, no. It can’t, it’s not. Jongin stands up, knees heavy and so are his ankles. They’re aching, and he’s surprised they’re not fucking bleeding yet.

A glass of sloshing alcohol is cradled between his hands. “Take a drink and feel the buzz,” Joonmyun says, and it’s perhaps the most sympathetic he’s been in months. “It hurts like a bitch huh? It’s okay kid. Best friends are always on the market, and so are heartbreaks.”

Jongin drops the glass.

Joonmyun frowns. “You know, this rug is new.”

“I need to go,” Jongin rushes out, his tongue foreign in his mouth. “I have to go—I need to go.” The room isn’t spinning, more like it’s tilting from side to side, as if they’re on a boat. As if they’re drowning. He’s drowning. Joonmyun reaches out for him but he jerks back violently. _Don’t touch me,_ he wants to scream.

So he does.

Ear-piercing, disgusting. A scream meant for ‘never’. Joonmyun flinches and clutches the bottle to him, his frown even deeper. The doors don’t burst open, but they hit the shelf behind so hard that it may leave a dent.

Arms encase him.

His first reaction is to thrash around, maybe kick or bite. He can’t hear anything, except a blur of Joonmyun’s mouth moving rapidly and his hands going out to set the bottle down far away. The same arms that aren’t Joonmyun’s travel down and give his wrist a squeeze, and Jongin knows those familiar rough hands of veins and wristwatch.

“Chanyeol, take me away, take me away,” he chokes out in a sob. He can’t hear himself, his ears ringing like an alarm. He’s drowning. “Take me away, just take me away.”

His Sehun never existed.

Joonmyun’s face is angry, his silky shirt stuck to his chest. Chanyeol is rocking Jongin back and forth in his arms. Jongin won’t ask how he got here, or why he was waiting outside of Joonmyun’s office. Instead, he hides in the folds of Chanyeol’s shirt, ears aching with a throbbing pain and face scorching hot from hyperventilating.

His Sehun is made up.

He looks back, Joonmyun still looks like he’s yelling. He says something and Chanyeol tightens his grip on Jongin, who is still coughing and sniffling into Chanyeol’s shirt. It’s embarrassing but there’s not enough time to care about it. Chanyeol buries his hand into Jongin’s hair, holding his head against his chest with his arms around his waist. Jongin can feel his heartbeat, rapid and too quick for measures.

Joonmyun thrusts the wine glass towards the two, a sour grin on his face doing no good to appease the vines of veins that throbs against Joonmyun’s neck and forehead. “This is how our story is written, Jongin!” he says in a singsong voice. “We just have to play our parts. Don’t ruin the story, don’t ruin it!”

 _Take me away,_ and he does.

Jongin collapses to the floor in ugly sobs. His ballet tights are rubbing up and down his skin, and his dancebelt is too tight on his groin and everything is just _wrong._ He smells like alcohol and candy thanks to Joonmyun, and Chanyeol is holding him by the waist again, legs on either side of his thighs and his white coat nearly covering them both.

“He h-hates me,” he sniffles, furiously wiping away at his eyes. “I did something wrong. I did something wrong.”

He can hear again, Chanyeol fumbling with words and saying ‘it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here’. Chanyeol’s face darkens when he looks down and sees Jongin’s face in clear view, all flushed and hair sticking to his temple with sweat lining his skin.

“Go home,” Chanyeol pleas. “I won’t. I won’t ask what happened because you’re already so worn out. But please, go home.” He pushes his forehead against Jongin’s, breaths mingling together and noses bumping. Jongin turns his head to cough into his hands, face heating up even more.

 _Chanyeol will stop liking me,_ he thinks with underlying horror. _Chanyeol will think I’m weird._

“Jongin, please.”

Jongin doesn’t turn around, but he can hear the rustling of cotton on cotton and a head resting between the crook of his neck and shoulder. Chanyeol sounds like he’s begging.

“I don’t want you to stay here,” Chanyeol rasps. “Everything is just getting worse and worse and you’re going to break.”

“I won’t break,” Jongin breathes out. His hand goes out to find Chanyeol’s hand. When he traces it he goes over veins and knuckle bones, trailing all the way up to his nails. In a state of despair, he grips his hand hard, afraid to let go.

His Sehun is dead.

In between the wretched cries and hiccups, Chanyeol manages to carry Jongin to the physio. “You’re so light. You shouldn’t be this light,” he murmurs, face etched with worry. “I’m going to take you home.”

“No!” Jongin pulls up and tries to wrestle his way out of Chanyeol’s arms. He doesn’t know where home is anymore, but the red house is dead. “I have to stay. I have—I have to _stay,_ to rehearse or Sehun will take my role.” He spits out the name Sehun like it’s rocks in his mouth. He shivers, thinking back to how Sehun looked so cold in the storage room, how his back hunched and his lips curled in a snarl.

“Sehun won’t take your role,” Chanyeol says, but there’s a thin layer of doubt between his voice. “Please, Jongin, I just want you home. It’s safer there. If you go home and stay with Yoora I promise I’ll take care of this. I’ll talk to Joonmyun.”

Jongin bites down on his tongue from asking, ‘what is there to take care of?’ His Sehun is gone. Lu never loved him. Ryeowook is out there somewhere all bloody and murder on his tongue and Sehun’s friends are Sehun’s friends. It hurts, he thinks, but it’s not painful. He can still dance. He has to.

Jongin looks up at the clock frantically. He barely has enough time to get to the rehearsal rooms. The biggest studio in the whole theatre. The room is spinning and his feet feel like rubber.

“I have to go Chanyeol, you don’t understand.” Jongin looks up at Chanyeol with wide eyes, bottom lip quivering. Chanyeol looks exhausted. Maybe he isn’t suppose to understand the way his dark circles are heavier these days, or why Chanyeol’s skin is much paler than it usual is, a sweet shade of beige shaded with sun marks. He looks down at himself, hands all worn down and his body different, as if not his own.

“You’re right.”

Jongin doesn’t look up.

“I don’t understand,” Chanyeol continues, words rocky and rigid. “I don’t understand why you’re staying here and letting them hurt you like this, and why you’re just going to stand up just to fall again. And I certainly don’t understand why you still go back to those people, and let it all come full circle with their slurs and hate.”

Jongin runs his hands down his face. He’s sorry, but he’s not allowed to say it out loud or Chanyeol will say, ‘no more apologies’.

“I can’t understand why you let them label you like that.” Chanyeol pulls off his white coat and hurls it at the floor. He slumps down onto his leather arm chair at the physio, head hanging and resting his elbows on his knees. His shoulders are hunched and Jongin is so far away. “Don’t you—don’t you care?”

“I do care,” he says, his words mostly stuck in his throat. “I care about you.”

“I’m not talking about that!” Chanyeol snaps. “I want you to care about _yourself._ You are not your dance. You are not ballet. You are not me and even though I care for you so much and I want that to be mutual, I want you to love yourself first. Care about your health and interests first.”

Jongin grips the hem of his shirt. He has to get to the studio quickly. But Chanyeol, he can’t leave him like this. He takes a step towards him, but Chanyeol just stiffens.

“Don’t,” Chanyeol says quietly. “Don’t come if you’re just going to tell me you’re okay. That you’re fine and you’re going to go dance with all the people that have hurt you.”

“Why were you so ready?” Jongin asks, curiosity getting the better of him. “When I screamed, you were already there hugging me.”

Chanyeol seems taken back. “I was worried,” he admits. “So I was taking a walk back and forth along the halls. I saw Sehun actually. He smiled at me and went into the storage room, saying he’s preparing for the rehearsals.”

Jongin wants to vomit.

He shoves at the door to the physio, shuffles turn into running so Chanyeol won’t catch how he is limping, his ankles flaring up in twinges and snaps. He thinks he hears Chanyeol calling for him, footsteps too, but he just keeps running.

“Jongin!” Chanyeol shouts, footsteps halting and hands reaching out for his waist. “Stop running, I’ll listen to you. I’ll listen to you but please don’t _run away._ ” His voice wavers like he’s scared. Jongin shuts his eyes, the paintings and photographs of ballet danseurs staring down at two men—two _boys_ —in the middle of the hallway. Fonteyn in red, and Chabukiani in the nude. Markova boring holes into the back of their necks with her stare. Pavlova’s soulless eyes flickering at them. Nijinksy’s smug smile.

“I have to dance. Let me dance.” Jongin makes eye contact with Karsavina in black and white. “Please just listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” Chanyeol turns him around so that he’s facing him, and leans down to press a kiss to his mouth. It’s gentle and sweet, the kind that high schoolers do because they’re timid but in love. Or at least they think they’re in love. Jongin hasn’t ever thought of wanting this in his life. Always content with waking up at five in the morning and leaving for ballet a few hours later, just to come back and count the hours he’s alone. He never would have thought that he would be here now, in someone’s arms and kissing in front of portraits of dead ballet dancers.

“Let me dance.” Jongin says it after Chanyeol pulls away. “God, just listen to me and let me dance. Let me make my own decisions.” There’s no spite, no hate. A fistful of sweater in his hand, and he wonders if Chanyeol will ever wear anything other than sweaters and dress shirts. Chanyeol’s face breaks, but only for moment, his lips slipping and his eyes wide.

He doesn’t say anything for awhile. Jongin wonders what he’s thinking.

“Okay.” It comes out terrible, a shuddering breath. Jongin waits for him to say more. Instead, Chanyeol unravels himself from him, a slow process of hands dropping from waists and the air cold when they’re not sharing the same breath. Chanyeol stuffs his hands in his pocket, and one last smile before turning away. In short paces, he’s slow getting back to the physio.

“Will you,” Jongin hesitates. “Be there for me? At the rehearsals?” he asks, hugging himself tightly.

Chanyeol looks back, glasses still loose on the bridge of his nose and his smile wanned. “I’ll always be there for you. Always.”

 

 

♕♕♕

This time, they’re not rehearsing in any Pavlova studio or Fokin. It’s the big stage this time, with his outfit scratching his thighs and stomach. It’s not magical, never is and never will be. His face is powdered dry with makeup, something he has gotten used to but not quite. He’s sitting in a chair, shifting back and forth because the wispy fabric of his costume digs into his skin mercilessly.

“Hey, Jongin?” It’s Sojin. Jongin looks up with owl eyes. She has a clipboard in her grip as usual. “You feeling better kiddo?”

“Y-yeah.” Jongin forces a smile onto his face. “It’s nothing.”

Sojin leans over to give Jongin a motherly pat on the head. “It wasn’t nothing, okay? Don’t disregard things like that. You tell me if you’re feeling sick and I can quickly pull you out. It’s just dress rehearsals today, don’t sweat it.” She tries her best not to ruffle up his hair and leaves, most likely to go check up on other dancers. Jongin stares at her back, wondering how she got from being a timid ballerina years ago and to an instructor with iron for a heart.

Jongin peers down at his ankle. Medication in his system and the headache from earlier gone, he can still feel a pang of dull agony in his ankle. Maybe he should have gotten it checked. But not with Chanyeol, no, he shakes his head, he can’t ever do that to Chanyeol.

His fingers are still grazing his ankle when he feels a tap on his shoulder. Looking up, he catches sight of Seulgi’s usual paper face. Always solemn and bored. She’s in her costume, more masculine than usual but she doesn’t mind. Wordlessly, she pulls up another chair beside him and settles down, pointe shoes fresh and new and broken in.

“No Sehun or Lu?” she asks dryly. Jongin bites down on his lip at the two names before shaking his head. “You’ve changed. You used to just cling onto the two.” Seulgi tosses her head, curls tumbling down in elegant waves. Her makeup is done as well, her high cheekbones kissing blush powder.

“Did I?” Jongin asks sadly. “I changed, huh?”

Seulgi shrugs. “It’s a good change.”

“Good?”

“I heard about what happened. In the locker rooms today.” She looks away. “I don’t care. Honestly, I don’t care. But I’ll just say this, you’ve changed and the old you would’ve reacted differently. Old you wouldn’t even be here right now. You would have run home with Sehun or Luhan and cry for a few hours and come back the next day. That’s why I hate old-you.”

Jongin touches his head gently. There’s an icy blue flower crown on his head, like what Myrtha wears. Later, someone will attach a veil to his head for the full effect. Seulgi looks over at him curiously, her pretty eyes flickering up and down at him.

“Looking at you like this,” she muses, “I wonder why you pretend to be a child all this time. So much potential, look at the mourning in your eyes.”

Jongin cracks a smile. “You sound like Joonmyun-ssi.”

Seulgi makes a disgusted noise. “That sick freak.” She shakes his head, as if shuddering. “No, I mean it. I don’t know why you let Sehun and Luhan string you up to be a child all these years. When you’re not with them you’re pretty…well, normal isn’t the word, but it’s all I got.”

“Sehun?” he echoes, and he hopes Seulgi doesn’t see how his voice shakes. His Sehun is dead. He doesn’t know the Sehun that walks the theatre anymore. Seulgi looks at Jongin like he’s missing out on the joke of the century.

“Sehun is someone you’ll need to study. Yeah, he has been stringing you up as a child. I guess it’s hard to pinpoint, though.” Seulgi shrugs, halfheartedly, and tugs on her belt meant for decorations. “He smiles really well though.”

Jongin bites down on his tongue for what seems to be the fifth time today. _Don’t let anyone distract you today. Not even Sehun._ Seulgi gives him a jerk of the chin and offers chewing gum.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Jongin asks quietly. “You don’t even like me.”

Seulgi shakes her head. She’s beautiful, he thinks, like a porcelain doll with her strawberry lips and paper face. “I don’t like who you pretended to be.” She fits the bubble gum in his hand and heads off, her hips swaying side to side, accentuated by her tights.

Jongin looks up and down, hoping to find Chanyeol somewhere in the bustling crowd of dance instructors and corps members. Most of them, namely the boys, shoots him side glances and snickers. Jongin looks down at his hands hastily, which are fastened between his thighs in an effort to hide how skeleton-seeming they look.

“Hey!”

Jongin’s head shoots up to see Jongdae gripping a brown paper bag,, he’s carrying it as if it’s his life’s mission to deliver it. He’s stripped of his usual uniform, but still in a wrinkled shirt adorned with an orange juice stain. Jongin pulls himself to his feet out of politeness but Jongdae shakes his head.

“Don’t bother.” He grins, his lips curling up delicately at the corners. He sets the bag down on Jongin’s lap and rests his palms on his knees, panting hard. “Christ, I haven’t run this fast since medical school. Especially when my classes were two floors apart.”

“Thank you, hyung?” Jongin looks down questionably at the bag, it’s carefully taped at the opening, as if someone had tried their best to make it look presentable. “What is this?”

Jongdae looks bewildered. “Did you call me hyung?”

Jongin catches himself a bit too late. He smiles shyly. “Sorry.”

“No, no,” Jongdae says quickly, face a little dazed and his smile cheerful. “It took so many years, but you finally called me hyung. I’m going to remember this moment forever.” He beams, throwing his fist in the air so enthusiastically that it’s nearly hard to believe he’s the head of the medical department of the Seoul Theatre.

“I…”

After settling down, Jongdae points to the bag. “Chanyeol says he’s held up somewhere, Joonmyun has a ball and chain on him right now.” Jongdae grimaces. “But he sent me to give you this. Said it’ll make you less stressful.”

Jongin’s heart warms, his chest a blooming spot of heat. _Chanyeol._

“I would love to stay and chat but a bunch of corps members are heading in to get themselves checked before the rehearsals.” Jongdae frowns and checks his watch. “Did you get a check-up yet? You have a big role and you don’t want to hurt yourself.”

“Chanyeol-hyung got it checked for me,” he lies through his teeth, “I’m alright.”

Jongdae nods slowly. “Alright then. Good luck okay? Regardless of anything, we’re still on your side.” He shoots him a thumbs up and jogs up the stairs to the medical hall.

Jongin opens the bag, trying not to rip it. Inside is a small carton of pomegranate juice, Advil, and a glass bottle of lavender oil. His heart, still warm clenches tightly in his chest. A small note in Chanyeol’s messy but tiny handwriting sticks to the lavender oil bottle. _Please stay healthy. I looked into Todd Syndrome and they say these help. Don’t drink red wine or cheese. No chocolate. So I didn’t buy any. You’re very important to me, so don’t lose yourself just yet. XX_

Jongin sinks further down in his seat. “We’re on in ten minutes Jongin!” someone shouts, but all he can do is stare at the glass. A small smile spreads across his face and into a full blown grin, and he finds himself unscrewing the bottle and dabbing it on his wrists and forehead.

Even if Chanyeol isn’t here yet, he hugs the bag to his chest with a death grip, and pretends he can feel the man raking his fingers through his hair lovingly.

He wiggles his toes in his shoes and hurries over to the side stage, glancing over his shoulder and side to side. A few people look away, some of them scoff and others just continue to eye him up and down. Jongin shuts his eyes for a few seconds, telling himself that it’s okay. That it doesn’t matter.

And it doesn’t.

He pulls off his leg warmers and stands with Seulgi and Sojin, the latter helping the younger girl fix her wooden facial expression. Sojin looks over worryingly, but eases up when Jongin returns her apprehensiveness with a smile. He’s okay now, he thinks, because all he smells is lavender.

“You ready?” she mouths to him, and Jongin barely has enough time to say something back when someone strolls up, pointe shoes padding across the floor.

Luhan is beautiful.

The older man has painted on glossy, red on his pouty lips, his eyes perfectly narrowed into a glare. It’s accidental, maybe, or it’s just his thing. His hair is curled and slightly teased. A fairy. Jongin feels his tongue go spongy in his mouth, his stomach lurching forward as if screaming, _he did something to you. Revolting._

Luhan seems to catch Jongin’s look of horror, a fleeting look of guilt sweeping across his face for only a second.

Jongin’s supposed to look away, he knows he should. _He touched you,_ a warning thought creeps up on him. He remembers the bruising force against his hip bones, of crying in the dining room in front of Chanyeol and promising to only kiss him and not Luhan. Instead of looking away, his mouth moves before he can stop it.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Seulgi jumps, her usually dull eyes widening and her false lashes fluttering up and down as she blinks between the two of them. Sojin exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose as she usually does when she’s tired, and excuses herself, muttering. Luhan looks over at him, face passive.

“My scene is soon,” says Luhan, and Jongin has to think twice before reacting too quickly. He sounds so… _tired._ Not Luhan. Not the man who rolls up his ‘street shit’ in liquor store receipts. Not the man who tilts his head back when he has a nosebleed, just for the metallic taste. Luhan looks away, the makeup not hiding the dark circles under his eyes. He has a cut lip too, Jongin thinks, but it’s hard to tell.

“Then go on the other side of the stage,” Jongin says coldly. “You enter through that stage anyways.”

Luhan looks over at him. His eyes are too heavy for the skin around it. “I need to talk to you.” He pouts as if he has a cigarette between his lips, and his gaze flickers over to Seulgi, telling her to leave. Seulgi scoffs and follows Sojin, muttering something about ‘insensitive fools’. “Just come home, kiddo.”

“How long?”

“What?”

Jongin shifts in his place. His costume is too scratchy and his makeup is too powdery. This, he thinks, this is not the entertainment dream he had dreamt of on rainy days back in the suburbs. This is not what they show you on stage, the dance belts digging into men’s groins and the strobe lights flaring in your line of sight. This is not the pretty faces of ballerinas on posters and paintings.

This is not what he had wanted in life.

“How long,” Jongin finds himself struggling with his words, “have you known? About Sehun?”

Luhan inhales sharply. After what seems like a hell’s worth of time, he lets go and his shoulders release a shudder that ripples through his skin. Through his body. When he looks up, Jongin nearly does a double-take. Twenty-nine going on thirty soon, but his face hasn’t aged at all. His skin is worn out, but there’s a vulnerability that stretches across his mouth. The mouth of a nine-year-old.

He had stopped smiling before his twenty-third birthday.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Luhan forces a smile, the kind that doesn’t require teeth or tongue. The one that doesn’t require sincerity. “Darling, I don’t know what you mean.”

“He loves you.”

Jongin isn’t sure what he is expecting. A double take, maybe, or dry laughter. Instead, he gets Luhan’s usual stoic gaze, his skin flawless from all the makeup and his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously. His flowery stage outfit for Act I sticks out like a sore thumb in contrast to his colorless face. The fake roses molded out of plastic and fabric all hang on the edge of his sleeves, his collarbones protruding almost violently under his skin.

Luhan shuts his eyes for a moment, hands tracing around at his sides looking for a pocket where his pack of Lucky Strikes might be. But there’s no cigarettes or anything of the sort, so instead he digs his nails into his sides, curling fingers and calloused palms.

“Our dress rehearsals are soon,” he says coolly. “I’m going to get going.” He glances over at Jongin one more time, and there seems to be an apology that rests between his sleeplessness.

“You’re a coward,” Jongin snaps. “You’re a damn coward and you’re always looking down at me like I’m inferior. But that’s not true. That’s not true at all.”

Luhan is walking away. His shoulders are all scrunched up together, as if he’s trying to crush bones. His own bones. His pointe shoes aren’t as quiet as they should be as he drags himself across the floor, and Jongin wonders if he has really broken them in fully, with Lu padding across the wooden floor with nothing but spite in his trails.

_You shouldn’t care about him._

_But I—I do._

“You’re so awful,” Jongin whispers. It dies just as quickly as it comes out of his mouth. Luhan has already disappeared behind the curtains, his body frame so small he seems like a fairy. “You’re so damn awful.”

Jongin feels a pat on his back and he whirls around to catch Sojin’s face. It’s grim but it’s always like that, and she motions him to a seat she pulled out for him.

“You want to watch Act I? I reckon so.” She hands him the paper bag Jongin had hidden earlier, the bag he got from Chanyeol. She tugs on his ear gently, because she can’t dare to ruffle up his hair, not with all the hairspray and texture to it. The veil and the crown of flower corpses. “You know, I’m real proud of you. I’m so happy you’re taking a stand for yourself.”

“I’m so weak,” Jongin says hopelessly. “I want to grow up. I want to grow up so _bad_ but—”

“Are you growing up for yourself or for Chanyeol?” she asks slowly, raising an eyebrow. “Did you know, when Ten burst through the physio with me and said that you were having trouble in the locker room, Dr. Park nearly dropped a whole tray of medicine? Dr. Lim yelped and scolded him but he was already out the door scrambling to keep up with us. I don’t know much about urban love. But boys who love boys aren’t any less deserving of love than boys who love girls or girls who love girls. I know that much.”

“I’m growing up for the universe,” Jongin says softly. He clutches the bag of lavender oil and other soothing methods tightly. “I want to see the world differently.” Unspoken words are left under his tongue. He doesn’t mention the fact that he wants to see Luhan differently, or how he’s already seen the costume Sehun has peeled off. Only that it wasn’t a stage costume like they’re in right now, but a mask of practiced loving smiles that successfully hid poisonous words and green eyes.

He doesn’t mention that he wants the world to see Chanyeol differently too, as a man with an untarnished past under his white medical coat.

“Did you do your stretches?” Sojin asks. Jongin nods. “Did you get your ankles checked out? Last time we were practicing they were really swollen.” She frowns, and he nods with the lie hidden at the back of his throat.

“I’m fine, Sojin.” He frowns, looking up at the stage. From here, he can see the corps members all checking each other’s costumes for loose strings and wardrobe malfunctions. Some of them catch Jongin’s gaze and pretty faces turn into scowls. _I used to be one of them,_ a sinking pang of guilt lodges itself into his throat. _I used to._

He sees Ryeowook in the crowd, his face all purple and bruised with foundation smeared onto his cheek, trying to hide his mistakes. Jongin holds in a gasp; Sojin grimaces and gives him a sympathetic pat.

“Joonmyun, he…” she falters. “It’s going to be rough, Jongin. It’s going to be a rough patch for awhile here, but you can always call out for help. We can transfer you to the Busan Theatre if the Seoul one gets too much for you. Gets too toxic.”

Jongin shakes his head, his heartbeat erratic. “I’m not going to run away.”

“Jongin—”

A young woman rushes up to Sojin, headpiece nearly slipping off her tiny head. “Sojin-ssi! Scene I is setting up and Siwon wants all the instructors on board in the front.” The lady shoots Jongin a worried glance, but looks away hastily. “He wants you to sit in the way front.”

“Way front?” Sojin asks flatly. “All instructors on board, huh? I guess I really am an instructor now.” Wistful.

Sojin gives Jongin one more look and mouths something that sounds like ‘ _break a leg’._ Jongin forces himself to do one of those trigger-happy smiles. The chair is wobbly when he adjusts his outfit, all the wispy material leaving red marks on his exposed skin.

“The life of a performer,” Jongin says under his breath. Everything is performed, acted, and faked. Even when all he sees is the red and blue color blurbs under his eyelids, he can still see those magazines and pamphlets shoved into his locker.

He thinks of Sehun, in all black and disheveled hair at the backdrop of the storage room. He thinks of Yixing the garden boy, who seems to sink to his knees for Sehun, infatuation clear in his lusty gaze. He thinks of Luhan in the dressing room, with his hands all grabby with a bruising force on his hips. He thinks of Joonmyun, who had laughed at Jongin all of these years with Bullnose wine for lipstick.

He thinks of Chanyeol, and everything goes blank.

The curtains roll up, and Jongin is sitting at the side of the stage, alone.

The village of Thurigen is just extravagant stage props. Half of the corps members are playing villagers, hurrying around on their pointe shoes and carrying themselves in puffy sleeves and styled but stiff hair. The orchestra pit of violins and cellos and basses all string out their chords and music sheets as Gideon—Luhan—pours himself across the stage in unfathomable beauty and a gaze so strong that even Jongin flinches.

He looks so happy, Jongin thinks, so happy for someone who had touched him wrongly. Jongin sits up straighter, his posture better, but uncomfortable. _This isn’t supposed to be right._ Luhan shouldn’t be smiling. He—he shouldn’t. Jongin holds the paper bag close to his chest until the tips of it digs into his collar bone. Luhan shouldn’t be grinning so happily and romantically, all graceful on his toes with the lights declaring him an angel.

Because above all, Luhan still loves him, right?

(Right?)

 _Why are they all smiling?_ The same boys who threw the magazines and pamphlets down at him are all staring at the stage in awe. Luhan is chased by the center lights and the instructors are all gazing at him with wonder, as if Ryeowook doesn’t have a black eye and a band-aid on his nose.

Jongin watches Seulgi enter the stage, her faux-leather belt that carries a sheathed and plastic sword slugs against her waist. Her hair is impeccable; braided in a way that makes her look like an elf. Her eyes are painted with all sorts of colors from a palette with her lips just as rosy as next the person. In a split-second, the look of revolting disgust is replaced with an expression of complete and utter adoration.

If no one knew, they’d think that Luhan and Seulgi are truly in love, as Gideon and Brecht.

“Don’t look like that.”

Jongin doesn’t have to look up to know who. He feels someone sink down, resting his chin on his shoulder. Chanyeol’s glasses prods at his cheek and Jongin gets help but giggle. Chanyeol looks down at the paper bag and smiles warmly, hands reaching up squeeze his arms and ease out the tension.

“They won’t see us,” Chanyeol says gently. “They’re all focused on the crowd. No one saw me come in either.”

Jongin nods. He starts to rise from his seat to give it to Chanyeol but the older man shakes his head and bolts him down. Instead, Chanyeol crouches down so that he’s on his knees and holds Jongin’s hand in both of his, running soothing touches across the callous that didn’t used to exist. There’s a sort of uneasiness to him, in the way his lips aren’t relaxed and his eyes bouncing between the stage and Jongin.

“Is everything okay?” Jongin asks, remembering Jongdae saying something about Joonmyun holding Chanyeol up. “You seem sort of stressed out.”

“I…” Chanyeol starts, but shakes his head. “It’s nothing. It can wait. I just wanted to watch you rehearse today.”

Jongin leans down to press a chaste kiss to Chanyeol’s mouth. He’s right, that no one else can see them two on this side of the stage, and the only light sort they have is the stage lights as Luhan and Seulgi do les brisés and the village corps with their polonaise. Something in him, the performer blood in him welts up and surges that threat of ‘ _go watch Luhan and them. Keep your eyes on them. Relish in the stage._ But he can’t seem to take his eyes off Chanyeol, whose eyes challenges the technical lights and fake chandelier on the stage, and whose emotions are more complex than any dance transition.

Chanyeol dabs at his mouth playfully, using the tip of his thumb. “You got makeup on me,” he says teasingly, spreading his fingers to show. “See?” Jongin grins and the tension from earlier seems to wither away but not leave entirely. A bit of red and pink are rubbed off on Chanyeol’s lips, and Jongin finds himself wanting to do it again.

“Everyone is okay. With us.” Jongin reaches out to brush Chanyeol’s hair with his fingers. It’s so soft and rich. “Sojin said she doesn’t care. It’s okay if the corps care, but Sojin and Joonmyun don’t care. I think that’s all that matters.”

Chanyeol tenses up. “Sehun?”

Jongin’s blood goes cold.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” he forces out. “Not, not right now.” _I don’t think I can._

Chanyeol nods, and he seems like he has a lot to say but the words are all stuck to the roof of his mouth. He tightens his hold on Jongin, his eyes flaring with anxiousness and something else. He’s afraid to say the _L_ word, but that’s the ‘something else.’

They stay like that for a while, just the two of them. Jongin would sometimes glance over at the stage and see a joyful Lu, and he knows that that Luhan doesn’t exist. It’s all scripted and all just character. When Chanyeol catches on, he pulls Jongin’s attention away by tugging on his fingers.

An hour slips away, but it seems to be a brief golden moment in his books, in his scripts. Chanyeol stands up ever so slowly, his hand still gripping Jongin’s but he’s resting on the back of the chair as the other dancers pools out. The curtains rigidly collapses to cover up the stage. Some of the corps rush past Jongin and Chanyeol to change, most of their faces accompanied with a sneer. Chanyeol flinches but holds his ground and his hand.

Jongin can hear the stage prop manager shouting in broken Cantonese at a few new interns, telling them to move the barrels to the left, his left, not the right. Jongin stands up and nearly slumps against Chanyeol for support, his knees terribly weak and feeling like rubber.

“Oh God,” Jongin mutters. “Oh God, oh God, oh God. I have to go dance now—in full costume and it’s dress rehearsals and,” he cuts himself short and looks up at Chanyeol. “What if I mess up?”

It comes out as a whisper.

“Hey hey,” Chanyeol cups the side of his face. Jongin doesn’t wiggle away from his grasp despite the man probably getting stage makeup on his hands. Everyone is staring, and suddenly Jongin becomes so conscious about that. He holds his breath and his eyes flutter shut, and he can feel Chanyeol’s breath spill its warmth and mint across the air between them. _People are looking,_ but Jongin doesn’t mind so much. “I’m here, okay? I don’t know if that’s what you need but I’m here. I promise when all of the rehearsals are over I’m going to take you on a date on your day off. We’re going to have dates like everyone else and I’ll be there everyday.”

“Dates?” Jongin echoes. “I’d like to go on dates. Will they be like the ones on TV? With roses and wine?”

“No wine for you,” Chanyeol says. “But yes. I’ll give you lots of roses. All the roses.”

Jongin looks down at his feet. He thinks of the roses in the garden tended by Chanyeol and the clinic with roses across the windows. The pink flowers that blooms on Chanyeol’s cheeks when it’s the earliest hours of the morning, Jongin wonders what sort of roses he is talking about.

“Okay,” Jongin nods, letting go of his breath. “Okay, we’ll go on dates. Dates with roses.”

“Act II, Scene I is soon!” someone shouts, hurrying past him. “Joonmyun-ssi wants perfection.”

Jongin looks over his shoulder frantically and back at Chanyeol. “I have to go, but hyung, will you be here? When my scene is done?”

“I’ll be watching you the whole time,” Chanyeol reassures him. He adjusts his glasses and straightens out Jongin’s costume. He runs his flatten palm down his chest to smooth out the wrinkles, and Jongin is a damn liar if he says he doesn’t shudder.

Jongin nods and unravels himself from Chanyeol. “Cheer me on.” He catches that graved expression of Chanyeol once more.

“There’s something I have to tell you later,” Chanyeol says quietly, eyes flickering to each other. “It’s about Sehun—”

Jongin swallows thick saliva. “Not now,” he says throatily. “Later. Tell me later.” Chanyeol hesitates, but nods and gives his waist a small shove onto the stage. Jongin bows awkwardly at passing older dancers and stage prop assistants but they all just glance away.

 _I can get used to this,_ he tells himself, _I have to get to used to this._

He positions himself at the ‘X’ marked by bright green duct tape, one foot tapped a little bit in front of his left foot. The scene two scene is in jarring contrast with the first stage; all the flowerbeds, benches, and willowy trees replaced with grave stones, cobwebs and trees that has lost the little bit of life they had left.

Jongin looks over to the left, where Chanyeol is leaning his shoulder against the wall, hugging the paper bag he gave to him. When Chanyeol notices him staring, his face lights up happily and his smile widens. He seems happier these days, Jongin can’t help but notice.

He hopes that he is one of the reasons for his smile wrinkles.

When he looks to his right, he sees a few corps members padding their way towards him, a few of them getting to position. One of them lingers behind and stops just a few steps in front of Jongin.

His Sehun is dead. His Sehun never existed.

But here he is, in powdered white skin that shows off the veins on his arms and neck. His Sehun is dead, yet Sehun still has that boyish and mischievous touch to his grin. His Sehun doesn’t exist, but here he is, in the flesh. In a wispy costume that mirrors the same color palettes as his, of dreary blue and black for the Wilis.

“Man,” Sehun whistles. His Sehun is dead. “You look like a work of art.” He gets on his tiptoes and admires the flower crown perched on a nest of curls and hair spray, topped off with a veil that conceals most, if not all of Jongin’s blanched horror.

Jongin takes a step back until he’s off of the X, and a step farther away from Sehun.

Sehun frowns. His Sehun doesn’t exist. “Hey, what’s wrong? You look pale—I mean, it’s the makeup but you also seem,” he scrunches up his face looking for the word. “Uneasy. You got stage fright?” Sehun reaches out to playfully punch Jongin’s arm, but Jongin jerks back so quickly that Sehun’s hand freezes in the air.

“Don’t come near me,” Jongin says in a low voice, afraid to attract attention but just enough so that Sehun can hear everything. His Sehun isn’t real. Sehun’s eyes widens by a margin but his voice remains steady as he clears his throat.

Sehun tugs on his sleeves awkwardly. The props of grape vines that curls around his wrists looks ridiculously plastic up close, but Jongin is sure they’re ‘stunning’ from far, far away.

Sehun opens his mouth to say something, maybe ask what he means when Chanyeol strides onto stage. Jongin whirls around to hear the prop manager shout at Chanyeol.

“Dr. Park! Get off stage!” he hisses. “The curtains are pulling up and Joonmyun wants the rehearsals flawless!”

“Just a moment,” Chanyeol says loudly, and everyone else is staring at the three of them. Jongin is reluctant on the big green X, Sehun’s face shadowed and Chanyeol’s expression unreadable. “Come with me Sehun.”

Sehun furrows his brows. Now, now Jongin can see the bit of the Sehun that killed his Sehun. He can see the Sehun that was sitting in the storage room with a cigarette to his name. The fleeting glare that has barely settled into his face replaced with a look of bemusement.

“Why?” Sehun asks cautiously, looking back. Jongin glances in the direction he’s looking at, and he sees Yixing’s face darken. Sehun scratches the nape of his neck sheepishly. “I already got my check-up a few hours before, Chanyeol-ssi.”

“Just come with me,” Chanyeol repeats, and he leaves no room for denial or refusal in his tone. Sehun thins his mouth into a line and nods, shooting Jongin a look. Jongin looks away with disgust, crossing his arms in the way that he knows makes people look strong when really they’re weak fools who has lost a best friend.

His Sehun never existed.

Chanyeol furrows his brows and the corner of his mouth twitches, face flushed with frustration. “Oh Sehun, come with me or I swear to _God,_ ” he hisses harshly under his breath. Jongin looks over at him nervously and then down at his hand, balled up in a fist. He longs to grab for it, but he can’t. Chanyeol jerks his chin towards the heavy velvet curtains. “Joonmyun-ssi is beyond those curtains. You want to talk to him about it?”

Sehun’s face morphs into one of those mannequins for a split second, then disbelief spills.

“Fine.”

Sehun spins around on Jongin, his eyes full of incredulity and his freckles almost visible under a thick layer of makeup. “I don’t understand,” he mutters. “Jongin, what are you doing?”

_Growing up._

Jongin looks up at the stage lights. He can see the interns of tender ages and the stage prop manager shouting through a headpiece until he’s blue in the face. His Sehun is dead. His Sehun is gone. Something strikes a chord in him. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone—but the Sehun that used to breathe the dusty air on stage and swung his legs on the ledge, Jongin remembers that Sehun a bit too much. That Sehun, sixteen-year-old Sehun used to intertwine his twiggy hands with Jongin’s and point up at the stage lights, their heads resting on the unpolished wood.

“ _Stage lights makes it look like heaven,”_ Dead Sehun used to say. That Sehun is gone, That Sehun never existed. The stage lights are the same as they were four years ago, the same Fresnels and Parcan lighting equipment that cost an arm and a kiss to get. They don’t look like heaven at all. Dead Sehun was a liar.

“Doesn’t look like heaven,” Jongin says faintly. _You liar._ Sehun is dead. His Sehun is gone. His Sehun had ridiculous views on heaven. Jongin turns to Chanyeol who is staring at him with a soft gaze. Jongin thinks the light in his eyes are more holy than stage equipment. “Chanyeol…I don’t know if I can—”

“I’ll take care of him,” Chanyeol says gently. “Don’t get shaken up.”

“The curtains are pulling! Get out of there, Dr. Park!”

Chanyeol hurries off stage and Sehun is staring at Jongin. He looks menacing in his Wilis outfit, but all Jongin can see is the storage room Sehun, with a crushed up pack of cancer sticks in his pants and his lips mouthing curses to Jongin’s name.

The curtains spreads, revealing the empty seats of audience except for a few, occupied by Joonmyun and the instructors. Seats draped with a certain velvet material and the armrests with rose carvings in them out of _Amboyna Burl,_ the same velvet Joonmyun props his feet against and taps his sticky fingers against expensive wood, coated with candy.

_I am the King of the Wilis._

_Me, Myrth._

_King of the Wilis._

Jongin flutters his eyes shut, and finds that his heart beat falls into pace with the first strings of the orchestra pit. One, two, three. One, two, three.

 

“ _And now, you know what a heartbreak is.”_

 

_I do._

 

He does.

Twist of the waist, he remembers all of the sweat that gave him a second skin. He will not let it go to waste. _I will not._ Jongin lets his feet fall flat against the X, falling the music of the cellos that belches out strung-up notes. One, two, three. One, two, three. Jongin throws his head back violently in twinned rhythm of the violins. Of the violas. _This is what a heartbreak is._

It is not love.

Cool air seeps onto his collar bones and chips away at his skin. One, two, three. One, two, three. Jongin opens his eyes and a gasp slips out of his mouth. No one hears a thing. One, two, three. One, two, three. A jeté battu here, a fermé there, and a lack of humanity over there. Jongin’s eyes shoots to the audience, where Joonmyun is gazing up at him with love in his eyes. It is not love. One, two, three. It is not the love that sits on the edge of the unmade bed, nor is it the love that finds itself in a paper bag with lavender oil and pomegranate juice. It is not the love that thrives between ballet shoes and doctor coats. It certainly is not the love that holds his hand on the end of the street in Yeonhui-dong.

Joonymun’s love mistaken for lust. Lust for ballet.

One, two, three.

One, four, eleven.

One, two, three, step.

And the Wilis awake.

Jongin steadies himself and in open arms welcomes the corps members of Wilis in their glory and misery. Jongin suppresses the scorching heat that probes at his chest, ripping skin and rib bones. _I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,_ he tells himself over and over, so much that his own thoughts drown out the orchestra pit below the stage. _They can’t hurt me now._

He nearly loses his footing under himself when the other corps members fall into line. Jongin sucks in his breath and glances over to the side where Chanyeol is suppose to be. A streak of light muddles his vision and he masks his stumble for an adjustment. _It’s just dress rehearsals, just rehearsals, just rehearsals._ Jongin looks down at his feet, his ballet flats broken in with the ribbons that holds it all up burn at the edges, courtesy of Sojin.

One, two three.

One two, nine.

The Wilis all surround him, and Jongin can hear all of their mingled pants and grunts when their elbows and shoulders brushing up against one another. Jongin winces when someone steps on his foot, and the throbbing pain in his ankle that he has hidden away creeps up his skin and under his tights.

The Wilis makes room for him within grace. Jongin looks up and sees Sehun in the group on the left, face painted alabaster white and his lips curled in an unforgiving twist. This is the Sehun that exists currently.

For a moment, he thinks he can forget.

Forget that Sehun kisses Yixing like he kisses Yoora, and forget that Sehun doesn’t love him. Forget that his Sehun had died and maybe never existed at all. The fool that sleeps on his tongue pretends that he can forget Luhan’s hot breath filled with liquor and Dunhill sticks. Erase all of Joonmyun’s sticky hands that muffled his mouth and the hole in the wall. Forget that Yixing’s screams sounds like riotous violins.

But it’s hard to forget a past life.

Something pulses in him, and he doubles over in spluttering coughs. The Wilis don’t notice him, and neither do the instructors sprawled across the audience chair. Jongin gasps for air and shuts his eyes with the back of his hands, knowing that he’s smearing off charcoal and the colors of his stage make up but he can’t find it in him to care.

_One, two, three._

_One, two, nine._

_One, twO, THREE, ELEVEN, HUNDRED._

_ONE, TWO, THREE._

Jongin’s feet are moving on its own, in perfect and poised steps mastered over the course of a few months. Of a few heartbreaks and reality checks. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun never existed. One, two, three. One, two, three. His Luhan is too real in the bones and flesh, too real for him. One, two, nine. One, eight, four. His role—oh, God, his _role—_ doesn’t belong to him.

One, two, three.

What’s a heartbreak, Kim Jongin?

Jongin opens his eyes for the last time.

A screeching howl of noises and whimpers, like banshees in wispy and feathery dresses of the dead. Banshees, yes, they’re all banshees. The Wilis all spin around him in a circle, no gathering and opening no one noticing him. No one noticing the way he nearly collapses to his knees. One, two, three. One, two, seven. Jongin staggers to his feet and tries to shake it off, a sinking feeling in his throat that threatens to choke the life out of him.

_No._

No, no, no, Jongin thinks with fear blocking up his mouth. _It can’t happen now, not now, not now._ Jongin frantically rubs at his eyes. _It’s just dust, it’s just dust! It has to be dust, it’s not…it’s nOT._ Jongin pulls his hands away, shaking like a mad man. His makeup is all smeared and coats the back and knuckles of his hands. Jongin looks up with wild words sitting on his tongue, and opens his mouth to scream for _help_ or _Chanyeol._

Nothing comes out.

Mastered steps and dance moves has gotten him here. Jongin knows the part, he knows it oh-so-well. The beginning scene of Act II, with the Wilis glorifying their King by gathering in a circle. A sacrificial circle.

No one can see him, Jongin knows the part oh-so-well.

Jongin clamps his eyes shut until his entire head titters and he knows he’ll have bloodshot eyes later. He steadies his breath and tries to reclaim his pose, his ankles brushing up against each other with his hands raised in the air. So the audience can see and admire the flower crown the King wears, weaved out of unrequited love and dead roses. Jongin knows for a fact, that the roses that are all dried up on his head are real.

Jongin brings his trembling wrist up to his face so that the smell of lavender can ease itself across him. _Please work, please work, oh God, please work._ Nothing.

One, three, two.

Jongin whimpers when the music from the orchestra claws at his ears, ripping apart his head. His medication, he took them, he _knows_ he took them.

Why aren’t they working?

WhY AREN’T THey WORKinG?

Why aren’t they—

WORKING

WHY AREN’T THey

working?

The sacrificial circle leaves an opening, and Jongin throws himself out. Jongin, the King of the Wilis. Jongin, the divine lamb. The offering.

This scene, the part that has been hammered into his back bones and ribcage for months, Jongin knows it so well.

One, two, three.

Yixing pulls up on stage as Hilarion, at least, Jongin thinks it’s Yixing. His vision is blurred and streaked with lights and all sorts of distortion. _I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, oh my God, I’m not crazy._ Jongin squints and keeps his hands at his sides, twitching and smeared in makeup powder and dust. Yixing slides his eyes over lazily and notices his face. Jongin can’t see, oh God he can’t see.

One, three, eight.

The Wilis disperse and hurries over to Yixing and surrounds him with wall of sweat and blood and lavish costumes that hugs every curve of every ex-eating-disorder patient there. Jongin wipes the sweat coating his eyelids away and at the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees Chanyeol thrashing around but held back by the stage manager, Chanyeol’s face flushed and his mouth moving so rapidly that he’s bearing teeth. He’s shouting, but Jongin can’t hear a single thing.

Jongin knows the part oh-so-well. Oh-so-well, where Hilarion dances himself to an agonizing death. Yixing does a chassé en tournant with his hips jutted out, his hair pinned so his short curls stays. Yixing looks at Jongin and his hands. Jongin swallows his breath. The veil that covers his face does a good job, because no one else can see how bloodshot his eyes are, or how his mouth is all twisted to tape up a scream.

_I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okaY._

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

Yixing is saying something under his breath when he spins closer to Jongin, his face a mash of guilt and hilarity. Jongin nods his head as if he can hear, as if his Todd attack is under control and as if it doesn’t feel as if his ears are clogged with blood and violins.

One, two, six.

One, two, three.

The Wilis all clutter around him, some on pointes and the men flat against the sole of their feet. Jongin muffles a splutter cough under his veil and masks his failing ankles with chasses and his contorting upper body with artistic thrusts. _I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay._ One, two, three.

The orchestra pit bawls with hysteria and distemper against his ears drum, and Jongin nearly collapses his knees. One, two, three, one, two, three.

In the midst of all of this, his thoughts are sluggish, marked with a small voice that lets out whispers across his skull. Jongin spins around frantically, eyes trained on the sides of the stage. Luhan, his face ghastly and bloodless. He furrows his brows at Jongin and takes a few steps closer to him, but his arm gets jerked back by Ryeowook, who seems to be speaking to him lashing tones.

One, two, three.

A throbbing pain flares against his skull as he caves in, his feet slipping from under him as if they ran on wax. Jongin hears hollering and someone’s hand on his shoulder but he jolts, shoving away that hand as he tries to scramble his feet, his ankles blistered and bleeding.

His vision wavers when he sees Chanyeol screaming until his chest rises and deflates with his arms getting held back by the stage prop manager and his assistant. The assistant seems traumatized, with her eyes popping out, appalled.

_Oh, Chanyeol._

One, two, three.

One, eighty, one.

Jongin staggers his feet, the Wilis still dancing around him. Jongin claws at his veil and rips it off, so that the light shrieks in his face and he winces as another migraine beats down on him.

His chasses turns into stumbles and he feels his ballet flats loosen. _The ribbons._

One, three, four.

And what is a heartbreak, Kim Jongin?

Jongin feels the stage under him slip, a choir of screams erupts around him. Him, the sacrificial lamb. Him, the King of the Wilis.

A choir of screams. His scream is mixed and battered with them.

The violins, distorted with their bows and the cellos in spruce wood and perhaps boxwood, too. One, two, three. His ankle twists with a sickening _snap,_ like the horse hair plucked away from the ivory tip plate of the bows. The same bows that breaks like twigs under his ribcage, and all he see is the conductor’s bow torn off by accident and a flutter of white coats around him. The concepts of brain power rusts and everything plays on repeat, over and over and over.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, stealing his role. His Sehun is a fake, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

In his thoughts—in the part of the brain that still breathes— in his own down spiraling thoughts, he thinks he sees Joonmyun shake his head. Disappointment. Sticky fingers. Liquor coated lips. This is what the rabbit hole looks like.

This is their story, written too long ago.

They just have to play their parts.

Jongin just has to play his part.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

One, four, six.

And the Wilis sleep at last.

(Jongin knows his part, oh-so-well.)


	18. Deadbeat Kids

11 August, 2005.

 

He associates the name Tao with hymn books and the statue of Angel Remiel.

His sisters all clutter in at the back door—front door only for decorations and guests—with their iron blue dresses and lipstick too glossy and cherry for mass. Jongin scrambles off the couch and covers his knees with the book he has been reading. _Don’t let them see,_ he thinks with a creeping horror, _don’t let them see_.

Jongin rips open one of the drawers with a grunt, the rusty handle hard to grip on. He pulls out a pair of pants that goes past his knees and wiggles out of his shorts and into his jeans. They were holey and mostly faded, but they hid the black and blue that paints his kneecaps. Jongin looks at himself in the mirror with haste, rubbing at the little dirt scruff on his cheek before greeting his sisters.

“Hello,” he says timidly, hugging the book tightly to his chest. He feels exposed, even in his long sleeves and equally long jeans. Eunhee scowls and dabs at her lipstick until it completely rubs off, leaving a tinted smear at the corner of her mouth. Jungah smiles sympathetically and nods.

“What are you reading?” Jungah asks, gesturing towards the book in his grasp. Jongin looks down at the book, a gift from his elementary teacher a few months back.

Jongin holds up the book in the air as his sister are pulling off their heels with relief. “It’s Alice in Wonderland,” he says sheepishly. _His sisters are noticing him._ “A-And this one is Heungboo and Nolbu.”

“Aren’t you a little too old for books like that?” Eunhee frowns as she tosses her bag onto the dining table. It hits with a heavy _thump_ that makes Jongin wince. “Alice in Wonderland, of course you’d choose that book.”

“Eun,” Jungah says exasperatedly. “He’s barely nine years old.” She tugs at a ribbon in her hair that unravels her thick curls. Eunhee says Jungah looked the most like their mother. Jongin just nods and accepts the answer, because he only has photographs to go by.

“How was church?” Jongin asks quickly to change the subject. He clambers onto the seat at the dining table as Jungah checks her phone constantly for emails. For a new job offer. “Is Yifan-ssi still teaching Sunday school?” Yifan is a young man in his college years that hasn’t left sleepy Ichon-dong and the small life of Japanese culture. He remembers Yifan’s wry smile whenever flipping one of those holy books, with the dark circles under his eyes more prominent than anyone’s.

“Yifan is still teaching,” says Jungah. She sets her phone down with a sigh and glances over at him. “It’s August, for goodness’ sake. Why are you in those clothes?”

“He never leaves the house anyways,” Eunhee mutters. “Who cares what he does?”

Jongin bites his lips hard. He downcasts his eyes so he won’t catch Eunhee’s cold stare. He has a tight grip on his books, so hard that his knuckles seems bleached and his fingertips all rosy and fleshy.

“We should,” Jungah says firmly. “We’re his guardians. His sisters.”

“Yeah, well,” Eunhee stands up and shoves her chair in so hard that it rattles the dining table. Jongin sinks down in his seat and as far away from the table as he can. “You’re getting married soon, are you going to take him with him when you marry Yejoon? Do you think he wants to take a mentally ill child in as a marriage gift—”

“Eunhee!” Jungah says sharply. “Just stop. Stop it right now.”

Eunhee whirls around to focus her glare on Jongin, who has his head down and his trembling hands balled up. _But I’m not mentally ill,_ Jongin thinks faintly, _but I’m not._ Jongin staggers to his feet, holding his books to his chest as armor as he excuses himself to his room.

“Look what you did.”

“I can’t look after him like that when you marry. You _can’t do that to me._ You can’t marry Yejoon and leave me with me. I can’t, I won’t. I cannot drive him to his ballet lessons and be responsible for his satanic episodes.”

“They’re not satanic.”

“Then what are they?”

“The doctors, they don’t, they don’t know.”

“The whole neighborhood thinks he’s a faggot.”

“Eunhee!” There’s a slam. Maybe hand to wall, or hand to birch wood table. “Don’t you ever say that word. Not in this house.” Jongin slumps in his bed and tries to barricade himself against the sounds of his sisters yelling. Screaming on Sunday. His shades are down and cover his windows, but he knows that outside there’s a group of children running around and playing, laughing and smiling. Screams aren’t meant for Sundays, they’re not meant for Sundays at all.

It quiets down, and Jongin can only hear the pitter-patter of the faucet against unwashed dishes. The television sings its usual mid-morning melodies, the old classics that only Jungah enjoys. Jongin allows himself to sit up on the bed, the mattress sinking when he does and the bed sheets surrounds him like a hill.

It’s not so bad, not to Jongin. He likes the lonely company of ghosts in his room. The ghost of a smile. The ghosts of his two sisters. It’s not so bad. Jongin rolls up his jeans so they sit awkwardly on his knees, all bulky and scratchy. The bruises and cuts that plagues his skin looks even worse in the low lights.

The television shuts off, and is substituted with Eunhee’s shrill laughter as she flirts on the phone with the new lover. Her, new lover. Jongin swings his legs on the edge of his bed, listening to the Sunday kids play outside. Jongin smiles wryly. It’s not that he’s sad, he’s not. He can’t find it in him to pity himself for not playing outside with other kids. The better kids; the ones who don’t have to worry about night terrors and morning terrors and afternoon ones, too.

Terrors in their own homes.

He’s not sad, he’s not.

Jongin rubs at his eyes with his balled up fist, the fan whirling around in the corner of his room. There’s a ribbon tied on it, a fleshy pink color that Jungah says was tied by their father. He hasn’t taken it off, the flapping sounds as a companion in the lonely bedroom.

Afternoon strikes, and the children are all in for homework and their weekly shows. There are no more Sunday children’s laughter that sings across the street, and Jongin finds it too quiet now. Jongin taps on the rickety clock on his bed stand. Smiling to himself he slips his hand under his mattress to pull out a few crumpled wons.

He unbuttons his jeans and slides them off, exposing battered skin until he slides up his shorts. They don’t cover up the ones on his shin and knees but that’s okay. Jongin stops to look in the mirror and runs his tiny fingers through his hair, all unruly and knotty. He stuffs his money into his pocket and takes a peek through the door that is slightly opened.

He’s sure Eunhee is out, her and her liquor on Sundays. Eunhee with her new boyfriend, her new lover. The television in the living room greets him with a black screen, and he hears none of Jungah’s classic radio musics. Jungah is out too, maybe with Yejoon looking at baby catalogs. Looking at wedding planners and wedding dresses.

Jongin sees a meal covered in plastic wrapping for him, marked with a note that says ‘Eat’. Jongin plucks the note off the meal and slips it in his pocket, making sure to get home in time to swallow it all down before Jungah or Eunhee can come home.

He finds it hard to slip into the too-tight shoes, but he manages with a grunt and a bit of determination. Jongin hurries outside of the house and shuts the back door before any flies or bugs can get in. Eunhee absolutely despises bugs.

The walk to the church isn’t far, but to Jongin, it feels like a lifetime.

He has practiced. He has done it many times before. Keep your head down, your hands in front of you like a gentleman and walk quickly but not nervously. Jongin runs his hand down his side to check if his money is still there, and it is.

Walk quickly.

Walk quickly, walk very quickly.

Walk quic—

“It’s him,” some kid whispers, seemingly horrified. “That boy Emiko talked about.” Jongin looks up and realizes he betrayed his own rules. Keep your head down. It’s a girl, with a bright blue bow in her hair that sticks out like a sore thumb. Her Sunday dress has a Japanese saying across it, and luckily from living in a neighborhood full of Japanese expats he has picked up a few things. 人を愛します, ‘I love other people’.

The little girl’s older brother sneers and tugs her by the shoulder. “Come on, Akahana,” the boy says with an accent but near perfect Korean. “Mama says not to play with deadbeat boys.”

Deadbeat boys, now that’s a new one.

Jongin inhales sharply and quickens his pace, until the stained-glass windows of the church winks at him in the afternoon sun. The two Japanese children’s whispers turns into winds of sleepy Ichon-dong. It’s okay, it’s okay. Jongin climbs the steps, kicking over some loose pebbles before hurrying to the back of the church.

He pulls himself up on the bin meant for donated clothes and books, minding the handle as it usually scraps skin to draw blood. Jongin sighs with relief when he sees the window open, with the cigarette butts from the pastor sitting on the ledge. He pushes it side with his foot and holds his breath as he gingerly slips one limb at time through the window.

Knee to glass awakes the pre-existing bruises, and Jongin hisses as he stumbles into his fall. But it’s all worth it at least, with the rows of seats and hymn books greeting him in gentle colors. He looks up at the back center, where the altar boys sit with calm and collected gazes until they find Jongin in the crowd, and their angel boy’s faces turns sour. He looks at where his sisters and him used to sit, in the way back where no one can look at them without turning their heads.

These days, Jongin hasn’t gone to mass with them. That way, no one has to turn their heads to look at his sisters.

Recollecting his breath, he settles down on the seat and pulls a hymn book into his lap. It almost eats up his thighs, as he is all skin and bones down there. ‘ _You need to be lean and fit, Jongin’,_ his ballet instructor at the Children’s Academy of Ballet says. ‘ _To carry all the ballerinas and to be healthy.’_

Jongin shuts his eyes and leans against the wooden seats. He remembers there being a choir, so that church isn’t really that quiet. Not with the babies crying and the toddlers dashing around with a bag of crackers to keep themselves occupied. But now, when he’s alone, it is truly quiet.

He’s not sure if he likes it.

Thirty minutes pass with Jongin pretending he can hear the church choir sing their hearts out and the pastor reading from his thoughts and the book. Something chirps inside him, signaling for him to stand up with the crumpled up wons in his hands. He tries his best to smooth out the crinkles and fold it up nicely. He looks up eagerly, only to realize that there is no basket being passed around because he is the only one there.

The smile slips off his face as he trudges towards the basket in the back, where all the money goes in the end.

When he lifts up the lid, he hears the doors slam with a crackle. Jongin spins around so quickly that his head feels like it’ll topple off. On impulse, he holds his head with his hands. _Don’t do that thing again,_ he begs, _don’t do that thing that makes me feel crazy. Like a freak._ Jongin looks around frantically, an apology and explanation on his tongue readily made for the pastor.

Except, it’s not the pastor. A boy with an uneven tan and tousled raven hair eyes him down from the altar. His eyes are wide yet unnerving, pockets of skin under them. He wears a white shirt that is much too big on him and goes over his knees like a dress. Scrawny legs just like Jongin’s, and his hands are clutching a box.

“You,” the boy stutters. Jongin hesitates. It’s no native Korean, perhaps another Japanese expat. “Steal. You stealing.”

Jongin furrows his brows together until it dawns on him. “N-no!” he splutters. “I’m not stealing. I’m putting money in, see?” Jongin holds out the money in his palm. He had saved up all week by tending the weeds in Mrs. Lee’s garden, who refuses to touch dirt and lets Jongin do it for 5,000 won.

The boy huffs and tilts his head in bewilderment. “No stealing.”

“I’m not,” Jongin says again. “I’m not stealing.” He puts the money in the basket, visible for the two of them. Visible for the angels on the stained-glass windows, too.

The boy shoots him a withering look. “Why?” he asks. “Here? Why here?”

Jongin tries to add in imaginary words to the foreign boy’s structure. “Why here? Why am I here?” he attempts, and the boy nods slowly. “I’m at mass. It’s Sunday.”

The boy in the white shirt frowns. “Mass…over. Mass is over.”

Jongin rarely finds himself frustrated, but there is something about this boy in a pale outfit clutching a box for dear life that gets him off-centered. “I’m here alone,” Jongin says slowly. “It’s not wrong to go to church.”

The boy’s shoulders slumps as if he has worn his Korean out for the day. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. Not wrong. Not wrong.”

Jongin holds his arm in his grip, the sleeves rubbing up against his palms. “I’ll go then,” Jongin calls out, his voice awfully loud in an almost empty church. “I just wanted to see someone.” In counted steps, Jongin makes his way towards the doors, not caring if someone will see him leave the church when no one had seen him enter.

“Wait!” the boy cries out, and it is in that moment that his Korean is crystal clear. He pads down from the altar and nearly slips on the steps. He clutches the box cautiously but hurries to catch up to Jongin. “No, stay. Stay. Stay at church.”

Up close, Jongin realizes that it’s a nightgown that the boy is wearing. He has lovely eyes, the kind Jongin only sees in oil paintings. The boy quickly sets the box down beside his feet and nervously wipes his hands down the side of his gown. He’s unnervingly skinny, so much that Jongin can probably trace his collarbone' and get scratched.

He’s skinny, and that’s coming from a ballet dancer.

Jongin peers past his shoulders. “Is Pastor Kim here?” he asks under his breath. He’s not sure what the pastor will do to him, should he find him here. Maybe pull him by the ear until he sings strung-out prayers, or throw him on the doorsteps of his sisters who will hang their head in shame. In anger.

The boy’s mouth twitches. “No. He’s gone.” He points to his mouth. “Fire.”

Jongin looks at him with incredulity. “Fire?” he asks, straightening up. The boy widens his eyes and shakes his head. Jongin relaxes when the boy points to the window where Jongin crawled in, where the cigarette butts sit. “Oh, smoking. Will he be gone for long?”

The boy scrunches up his face and tugs at his collar. “Yifan-gēge says he’s home. At home.”

“Yifan-ssi?” Jongin echoes, and the boy lightens up. “Do you know Yifan-ssi?” He misses Yifan dearly, the way his hands always guided Jongin’s when he has one of those unnamed episodes, murmuring ‘ _it’s okay’s'_ into his ear as little Jongin let out shuddering sobs in Sunday school.

“Yifan-gēge,” the boy says again, a happier tint to his voice. “My…brother. Brother, big brother.”

Jongin shapes his mouth into an ‘o’. “What’s your name?” he asks. He hasn’t been told Yifan had a little brother.

A look of reluctance washes over the boy’s face until his eyes meets Jongin’s. “Zitao. Huang Zitao.”

“I’m Jongin,” he introduces himself shyly. He holds his breath for a moment, waiting for some sort of realization to dawn upon Tao. That Jongin is the neighborhood’s freak. The fault of the church and the fault of the two Kim sisters. Deadbeat boy.

_I’m not crazy._

Instead, Tao just beams and tugs on Jongin’s hand, pulling him to the altar. Their footsteps are loud in the vacant church, with Jongin’s sneakers squeaking into the spruce wood. Tao’s bare feet makes soft _pat, pat, pat_ against the floor, with his toes curling in a few times. Tao plops down on the steps, his smile still wide and it is such a jarring contrast to his earlier expression, like a deer caught in headlights.

“It is lonely,” Tao admits. “After mass. No one here.”

Jongin turns his head to look at the statues of saints behind him. Of Remiel and Gabriel, of Michael in in his mighty shield and wings. Immortal, Jongin thinks, but stone is not unbreakable.

“Why are you here?” Jongin asks, staring up at the stained glass that paints stories from the gospels. He looks over at Tao, whose nightgown lifts just a bit above his knees, which are cradled closely to his chest as Tao stares through Jongin up and down.

Tao pauses for a moment. “Learning,” he decides finally. “Becoming altar boy. Living with…Yifan-gēge. Why you? Why here?” he asks curiously, letting his eyes roam Jongin’s body. Tao takes notice of Jongin’s bruised knees and lets out an audible gasp. When the boy traces his fingers across the skin, Jongin feels a jolt of energy course through his body. Tao’s pout deepens when his fingers meets the cut that runs jagged across his the space between his knee and thigh.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” Jongin tries to cover his knees with his hands hastily. Tao’s face falls as he reaches out to pull away Jongin’s hand to look at the skin. “I get these from the windows coming in. I come every Sunday afternoon.” Because, every Sunday afternoon is everyone’s love hours. Eunhee with a glass of blood wine with her face in the crook of her boyfriend’s neck, and Jungah forgetting her pretend role as Jongin’s mother as she and her fiance dream about better lives.

“But why?” Tao asks persistently. “You are here?”

Jongin thins his mouth into a line, and his grip on the edge of the steps loosens. “I wanted to see God,” he says in a meek voice. He curls in, hoping it’ll protect him from the glare of the Angel Uriel. Tao doesn’t look anything like Yifan, Jongin has come to realized. Yifan has almost an elegance to him. Tao is eerily jovial and jumpy. “I wanted to ask him for better days.”

Tao hums and tugs on the hem of his gown. He shakes his head, his delicate face flickers and Jongin can see some sort of melancholy embed in his skin.

“You are in the wrong place, then.” Tao buries his face into his palms, his shoulders bouncing up and down in a rusty way that Jongin thinks he’s crying. But when he pulls him, his face is still the same; gentle. “God is slow.”


	19. Lavender & Roses

The smell of lavender prods at his senses.

Jongin feels that his eyes are heavy, almost as if stitched shut. With much effort he pries them open with a groan, the stiffness in his neck lashing out at him. His vision is bleary and for a few seconds all he sees is white ceilings. He hears someone swear under their breath and cautious hands tugging on what feels like a blanket around him.

Jongin blinks a few times, each less slower than the other, less sleepy. The white ceiling gazes back at him, with a light in the middle and not a single crack in it. Jongin tugs on his arm only to find it tensed and his wrist unmovable. Like a mannequin.

“You have a cast on, buddy,” says someone, a perky and fresh voice. A low panic sets in Jongin’s chest when he looks up and down at the man. His hair is wild and disheveled, a shade of bright, bubblegum pink that makes his hair look like cotton candy with it so messy and unkempt. His eyes seem like they twinkle, with them crinkled up like moon crescents as he smiles. His shirt is too baggy for his small frame, and paint splatters across the white cotton, enough to be a palette.

He seems trustworthy, but Jongin has come to learn that trust can be violated.

His mouth feels dry, the strange man still eying him in awe. Jongin looks up at the IV bag on his right, _drip, drop. Drip, drop._ Jongin lets his sleepy eyes roam the room. It’s a hospital room, he has come to realize, with the table fill with lavender roses. _Lavender roses?_ Jongin sits up and the man scrambles to his side.

“Who are you…” Jongin starts to ask until he notice the tiny chair in the corner of the room, with an elfish man slouched in it, a flimsy blanket across his shoulder. “ _Chanyeol—!”_

“Shush,” the man holds his finger up to his mouth, seemingly charmed. “He’s asleep. God, it took forever to convince him to sleep, so don’t go ruining my hard work.” He clicks his tongue. “Stubborn asshole.”

Jongin shrinks down. “Don’t call him an asshole,” he whispers. Baekhyun looks taken aback by this, before muffling a chuckle with the back of his wrist. “Who are you?”

Baekhyun taps the side of his cheek in a fake pout. “Oh, I’m Baekhyun.” He scratches the nape of his neck dubiously. “I’m not sure if you know who I am, but I’m Chanyeol’s friend.” Baekhyun slumps down in his seat, and Jongin sees a sketchpad and graphite pencils strewn across the plastic chair.

“I know who you are,” Jongin says softly. Byun Baekhyun, the only person Jongin doesn’t know in Chanyeol’s contacts. Byun Baekhyun, the man from Hongdae who kisses the tip of paintbrushes more than he kisses women. Byun Baekhyun, the friend Chanyeol frets over because he’s afraid for his mercury poisoning. Byun Baekhyun, who likes oil paintings more than he likes Chanyeol.

Jongin looks down at his foot, which is in a cast. His heart sinks as he reaches over with shaky fingers, trying to touch the edge of the white cast.

“My leg,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “My leg, it’s…it’s—I can’t dance.”

Baekhyun, alarmed, quickly pulls out a crumpled up sticky note. “You fractured your ankle and your arm,” he rushes out in one breath. “You fell and Chanyeol broke some of your fall. You fell in the orchestra pit.” Baekhyun looks over at his friend, his face pained. “I wish he’d go home. Chanyeol, I mean.”

“How’s Chanyeol?” Jongin asks, panic creeping into his voice. Chanyeol is crammed into the chair, his cheek bandaged and his wrist in an equally white cast. His hair’s a mess and his skin is so transparent that Jongin has to cover up a cry with a cough. He looks awful, and Jongin reaches out for him, but he’s chained to his bed.

“He’s alright,” Baekhyun reassures him. “I don’t know the full story, you should ask Yoora when she gets here. But physically, he’s alright. Mentally, though, that’s a different story.” Baekhyun looks over at Jongin, his eyes kind and warm. “Did you know he’s afraid of hospitals?”

“Hyung?” Jongin’s voice cracks. “But he’s a Doctor.” Was, a Doctor.

Baekhyun looks down at his feet, shuffling them. “That’s why he’s afraid of these places,” he says sadly. “But he’s here. He has been here and hasn’t left since.”

Baekhyun shakes his head and runs his hand through his bubblegum hair. “Anyways, it’s nice to meet you, Jongin-ssi.” He beams. “I’m really glad to have met you, Chanyeol hasn’t said much to me but his sister has. I know you’ve been making him happy, though.”

“Really?” Jongin asks quietly. That, he hasn’t been sure of. The bedroom kisses during the lightless mornings, and Chanyeol counting his fingers one by one even if there’s only ten. He’s not sure though, if the smiles that plays about Chanyeol’s mouth is real enough, or if they’re meant for him.

Baekhyun shrugs, he pours a glass of water for Jongin and leaves it on the table beside him. “He hasn’t gone to one of my art therapy classes, not since he moved to Yeonhui-dong. He used to drive from Busan to Seoul just for those two hours sessions. Plus, if you didn’t make him happy, I don’t think he’d be here right now, in a hospital.”

Jongin stares at Chanyeol. It takes a lot out of him, not to reach over and tuck his hand behind Chanyeol’s ear and tell him it’s okay. He looks so small, balled up like that in the seat, with the way his blanket barely covers his back and his head is resting against the wall.

“Did anyone convince him to go home?” Jongin asks, his heart heavy.

Baekhyun snorts. “I’ve seen like five different people walk in and out for the past three days telling him to go home.” For show, he holds his hand and wiggles all five of his dainty fingers. Artist fingers, Joonmyun might call them. “There’s Yoora-noona, some fancy guy named Jongdae-ssi with his two women from the ‘Doctor Squad’ or something. And me, of course.”

“I was out for three days?” Jongin asks. “I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean to cause anyone trouble.”

Baekhyun blinks. “I don’t think you caused trouble. And according to Chanyeol, you were under a lot of stress from the ballet or something? Your brain just kinda went,” he makes a wild gesture with his hands. “ _Poof!_ I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.”

Jongin looks down his body. A few scars run across his arms and an ugly bruise paints itself onto the back of his hand. The lump in his throat thickens and he chokes out a sob that sends a shudder throughout his body. Baekhyun, startled, scrambles out of his seat which knocks the cheap hospital chair to the ground. Baekhyun lets out a string of hushed curses, wincing after and burying his pretty hands into his bright hair.

Chanyeol jerks up from his sleep as Jongin tries to wipe away at his eyes with the hand that isn’t broken. His chair is knocked over, too, and Baekhyun yelps at the sudden sound. Chanyeol looks around before his eyes train on Jongin before widening. Jongin opens his mouth to say something but what comes out is a train of hiccups and sniffles.

“C-Chanyeol—,”

The older man hushes him as his eyes are just as bright and rimmed red. His hands reach up to cradle Jongin’s face, his touch sensitive and gentle as he’s afraid to wake up any of the cuts on Jongin’s face. _Chanyeol,_ Jongin thinks, _oh, Chanyeol._

“Are you hurt?” Chanyeol forces out, his breath warm on Jongin’s face but his hands are chilled. Baekhyun looks at them awkwardly as he toys with his fingers in the back. Chanyeol is just checking over the IV fluid bag and his cast. Chanyeol pales when he looks over at Jongin’s leg and sucks in a breath. “I-I’m going to call the Doctor, Baek, can you go down the hall and see if a nurse can check on him. And call my sister, I need her t-to come here.”

“Hyung,” Jongin says, but Chanyeol doesn’t hear the first time. “Hyung, you’re shaking.”

Chanyeol looks down at his hands and squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for them…I’m sorry.”

Neither of them are sure what his apology is for.

“It’s alright, Baekhyun-ssi, don’t call the nurse or doctors.” Jongin flashes the artist a weak smile. “But is it alright if I talk to hyung for a little bit?”

Baekhyun nods briskly. “Yeah! Of course, I’ll just go in the halls or something.” He points at the door. “I’ll be right back, I saw macaroni and cheese earlier.” Baekhyun clears his throat awkwardly and nearly trips on his way out on his bag.

“I’m calling someone in here,” Chanyeol says impulsively, spinning around on his heels so quickly that he loses his balance. “I can’t believe Baekhyun didn’t wake me up, fuck. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ ” Chanyeol rakes his hand through his hair and mentally beats himself up.

“Hyung, stop it.” Jongin tries to sit up as best as he can. “I’m okay.”

“No you’re not!” Chanyeol spits out, looking back at him with wild eyes. He looks like an injured deer. “Your face, it’s all scratched up and you’re in here and I—” he swallows. “I’m so scared.”

Jongin stays silent for a moment, afraid to disturb the ghosts. He has rarely seen Chanyeol like this in the few months he has known him. Chanyeol is always so calm and collected, with his shoulders straight and his chest broad and in open arms just for Jongin. But this Chanyeol looks like a young boy, his face unfamiliar, resembling a weeping statue. His skin is bruised around his cheekbones. This man looks thin and fragile, with his entire body hunched up and his hands having no place to go.

This boy is the same man as Chanyeol. He hasn’t changed.

“I’m okay,” Jongin insists through his hiccups. He bites down on his lip so hard that it sends a jolt of nerves up his skin. He blinks hastily and looks up at the ceiling so that no more tears can fall. “I’m not crying anymore.”

“Stop it.”

“Hyung, you’re hurt.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Chanyeol!”

The twenty-nine-year-old coughs into his wrist and Jongin sets into panic. He strains his upper body to grab the glass of water and thrusts it towards Chanyeol, even if a few droplets splatter onto Chanyeol’s wrists and his. Chanyeol wipes his mouth and shakes his head, his eyes all puffy and his nose pink like rosebuds.

Chanyeol pulls up Baekhyun’s chair wordlessly, except for a few begrudged sniffles, and gently rests his head onto Jongin’s lap. Jongin stiffens, but relaxes as Chanyeol closes his eyes, his long lashes beating against bruised cheekbones. Timidly, Jongin reaches out to run his hand through his curls, in awe of how soft his locks are. Chanyeol squeezes his eyes even tighter before he opens his eyes.

They’re so bloodshot that one may mistake Chanyeol for being a drunkard. Jongin flinches at the harsh sight. “Chanyeol-ah,” he chokes out. “Why would you do this to yourself?”

Jongin continues to run his hand through Chanyeol’s hair as he lulls the older man into comfort against his lap. He seems so small like this, like a kicked puppy curling up against his owner.

Chanyeol’s hand reaches up and his fingers hover over Jongin’s wrist. The younger man notices that Chanyeol is resting his injured wrist between his leg and it sets Jongin off again in silent but spluttering coughs.

“How did you hurt yourself?” Jongin asks in a hushed voice, as if he’s afraid to stir Chanyeol’s hair. The man looks down at his hand and offers a delicate smile. “Don’t smile, it’s not funny. It’s not funny.”

“I fell with you,” Chanyeol admits, his voice all throaty. “I wasn’t being clumsy though. I fell with you because I wanted to.”

“You,” Jongin stops short. He digs into his blurry thoughts, of a stage filled with itchy outfits and hands stained with eye makeup of the King of the Wilis. Of an orchestra pit that plays like a firestorm, and of Chanyeol screaming in the backstage and of prop managers. “You’re so stupid. Hyung, you’re too stupid.”

His chest jumps up and down unsteadily, but he tries not to let it show through his face. Chanyeol sits up, and all the warmth and weight leaves Jongin’s thighs. He wishes for Chanyeol to rest against him again, and let him feel less lonely in a hospital room meant for the loners and the ill.

And Jongin doesn’t want to be either.

Chanyeol hangs his head, his shoulders all wobbly and violent. Jongin reaches over to touch his hand and the man flinches. “Please don’t cry,” Chanyeol coughs into his arm. He looks thinner than Jongin had looked before, with his skin a sickly tone and his hair mussed up. “Fuck, I don’t know if I can breathe if you cry.”

Jongin brings his free hand up to his eyes and wipes away furiously. “I’m not crying, hyung, I’m not crying.” Chanyeol jerks away and collapses to his knees and Jongin gasps. He covers his face with his hands and he hears sobbing sounds coming from him. “Stop it, you can’t cry. You’re not supposed to cry, hyung, so don’t you go—” crying. Chanyeol brings his knees up to his chest and buries his face in them, his entire body rocking back and forth.

He seems almost childlike.

“It’s hard to breathe,” Chanyeol’s voice cracks. “Oh, God, it’s so hard to breathe and I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do.” Chanyeol shakes his head, still refusing to look at Jongin.

“You’re afraid of hospitals,” Jongin says. “Please Chanyeol, just go home and rest.”

“I couldn’t save your role,” Chanyeol says, more for himself than to Jongin. The hysteria from earlier settles on Chanyeol’s face again, and Jongin watches as the man shrinks further and further into himself. Jongin, chained to his bed by IV fluids and disgusting pale casts writhes around in it, trying to scoot closer to the man that held him close on their bad nights. “I couldn’t save you from your Todd attack or the magazines in the locker room, I can’t even save you from Sehun or Luhan and I,—”

He doesn’t continue.

 _His role._ Jongin doesn’t have to ask who it belongs to now. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun never existed. Perhaps the role never belonged to Jongin in the first place.

He shakes his head, suppressing it down with his other thoughts. “That’s alright,” Jongin says reassuringly. His face is mostly dry now, even if it’s all patchy and red. “Please just stop crying. You’re—you’re hurting me.”

Chanyeol lets his head fall back, and Jongin can see all the sleep marks left from his shirt onto his neck from sleeping incorrectly. “I’m an awful boyfriend,” he whispers. “I can’t do anything right.”

Boyfriend, even with his leg and arm numb and motionless, he still feels a warm spirit bloom in his chest at the word. _Yes,_ he thinks with an odd giddiness, _Chanyeol-hyung is my boyfriend. I can kiss him, and hug him, because he’s my boyfriend._

“I want to kiss you,” Jongin blurts out. He dismisses the ache in his chest that sings about ballet and roles and puts his attention on Chanyeol. He looks up, dumbfounded. “I know I wasn’t conscious for the past few days but I would really love it if you kissed me right now, hyung.”

“I…”

“Before Baekhyun-ssi comes back?” Jongin pouts. His eyes still sting, but he knows this is the only way to get the other man off the ground without hurting his dignity. Without hurting his pride. There’s something wrong with the world when Chanyeol is scraping his knees across a hospital floor.

A few minutes later, Chanyeol pushes himself off the ground and a sense of humiliation hits him hard. His eyes go wide with recognition and look away from Jongin shyly. Jongin reaches out for him, fastening his grip on Chanyeol’s unharmed arm and pulls him close so that their noses touch.

Jongin holds his breath. He hasn’t ever been this bold before. His touches are always tentative or second-handed, but there’s something about Chanyeol crying that makes it seem like the world has wronged them. _The world wronged you, hyung,_ Jongin wants to say, _the world wronged you so bad._ Chanyeol bends down a little to match Jongin’s current height, and up close Jongin can see the mole dotted on Chanyeol’s nose and the dull skin that speaks of little sleep under his eyes.

_The world wronged us both._

Jongin parts his mouth just enough to clasp his lips onto Chanyeol’s. It tastes salty and of hospital coffee but Jongin doesn’t mind. Their lips don’t mold as nicely as described in novels or books but Jongin finds comfort between the man’s plush lips and hot breath. Jongin’s hands explore Chanyeol’s hand, the one not in a cast until his fingers can course along his veins like a memory.

Chanyeol leans further into the kiss, and Jongin allows himself to rest his head against the backboard of the bed as Chanyeol grips his hand with a death grip. He pulls away and wipes across the bottom of Jongin’s mouth with nothing but love in his eyes. _Love,_ Jongin thinks, _no, Chanyeol doesn’t love me yet. Chanyeol can’t, not yet._ The hyung hovers his thumb across each bruise on Jongin’s face before dipping down to give each one a long and pleasant kiss. Jongin squirms under him with a giggle ripping from his mouth which lightens Chanyeol up, at least a little bit.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Chanyeol confesses. He reaches up and pushes Jongin’s hair out of his eyes, letting his hand run down to the side of his face and sketching out circles on his skin. “I didn’t mean to startle you by breaking down like that. I didn’t mean…” he falters when Jongin clears his throat.

“No apologies,” Jongin mutters. He pulls Chanyeol’s hand into his lap and cradles it, letting his hand fall flat against his smooth skin. He ushers Chanyeol to pull up the chair again and sit down beside him, and Chanyeol’s eyes never leave his. “Why don’t you go home?”

Chanyeol clouds up. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I want to stay here with you.”

Jongin’s heart swells. “Baekhyun-ssi says you’re afraid of hospitals,” he says in two low tones. The first is out of sorrow, and the second is indescribable. “Does it have something to do with your last job?”

Chanyeol blanches before clearing his throat. “It’s not about me right now. You just worry about getting better so I can take you home.”

Jongin huffs out before he can say anymore. “That’s not true! It’s always about you, it’s always about us. Hyung, I don’t know much about relationships and boyfriends or what they do but I do know that it’s always two people now.” Jongin holds up his cast arm tries to wiggle his two fingers through the small slit. “Us, it’s about us now. Like those romantic sitcoms about couples and romance novellas, they’re always about each other. Can we be like that? I want to be about you.”

Jongin gives a small smile when Chanyeol chuckles, even if it’s faint. “You are something else,” he says, shaking his head. “You really are, Jongin.”

“Is that okay?”

“It’s more than okay.”

They don’t talk about ballet, not now. Jongin holds his head up as Chanyeol drums his fingers across his arm, completely entranced with it. He seems more alive than earlier, but something keeps tugging at Jongin’s heart, begging him to do something about the way Chanyeol’s eyes are more droopy and how he keeps glancing back at his emptied coffee cups.

Jongin lets Chanyeol rest his head on his lap again, which the other man happily does so. They stay like that, with Chanyeol’s face now dried and beaming up at Jongin. He looks so gentle and sweet that Jongin can’t help but love.

Love.

He’ll ignore that for now.

Baekhyun bursts in with a bowl of food and his mouth all blue. “So, there’s a candy machine here—God bless this hospital—and I totally just spent my daily amount of sugar intake on this really fuckin’ big bag of sweets,” he splutters into a coughing fit and Chanyeol’s face twists into that of annoyance before pulling away from Jongin. “Oh my sweet holy spirit, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Jongin fixes the blanket around his lap. “You didn’t interrupt Baekhyun-ssi—”

“Get out,” Chanyeol deadpans, looking at Baekhyun with a tired face. “If you spill any, I will not take responsibility for it.” Chanyeol eyes the bowl of food that Baekhyun is holding with a withering look.

Baekhyun snorts. He places his food down on the table and in two quick strides hurries over to Chanyeol and throws his arms around the man. “Ohhh! Look at you, my lil’ best friend, were you crying?” Baekhyun looks over at Jongin eagerly. “Jongin, was he crying? Tell me, was he sobbing? He’s an ugly crier isn’t he? He scrunches up his face like he’s constipated and lets out weeping sounds like an animal. I’m thinking a vulture. Do vultures cry?”

Chanyeol wrestles the tiny man off him. “Get off of me, you brat.”

“Chanyeol isn’t an ugly crier,” Jongin says in a small voice. He hugs the blanket close to him with one hand. “I think he’s pretty.”

Baekhyun lets out a whoop and starts clapping like a wet seal. Chanyeol, flustered looks at Jongin, seemingly betrayed.

“Jongin!” Chanyeol says, his eyes in despair. “Oh my God, why did you say that?”

Jongin shrinks back into his pillow. “But you _are_ pretty.”

“Park Chanyeol!” Baekhyun nearly screeches out of laughter. “Park Chanyeol is pretty!”

Jongin hides a smile. He hasn’t seen Chanyeol with a friend, not since he moved to Yeonhui-dong. It’s almost difficult to perceive Chanyeol, in his broad shoulders and glasses with someone like Baekhyun, who has more holes in his jeans than necessary, with his shirt a canvas itself. But it makes it all the more endearing.

He tries not to think about him and Sehun, the Sehun that never really breathed true reality. The Sehun that didn’t actually exist.

“Oh, I haven’t introduced you two yet,” says Chanyeol, who clears his throat. “This is Byun Baekhyun, I’ve told you about him once, I think. The artist in Hongdae who licks his paintbrushes more than he should.” Cue glare.

“Hello, Byun-ssi,” Jongin tries to bow sitting up, but ends up nearly ripping out his IV fluid tube. Chanyeol yelps and scrambles to his feet, muttering about him being careful. “I’m alright, Chanyeol, don’t worry!”

Baekhyun giggles. “Ah, just call me, hyung. Did you know I’m the same age as Chanyeol? Weird, right? I look dashingly young, though huh?”

Chanyeol ignores him. “And this is Kim Jongin, he’s my,” he pauses to offer a wide smile. “Good things. He’s my boyfriend.” Jongin reddens and suddenly feels as if his skin is much too hot for the room. Chanyeol pats Jongin’s hand and nudges Baekhyun with his foot. “Don’t be a jackass to him.”

Baekhyun sticks his tongue out; it’s very, very blue, like raspberries. “Shut up, this is the first time you have had a relationship, it’s not like you have anything to go by!”

Jongin blinks. “It is?”

Baekhyun turns cheeky. “Of course it is! You know, he has a very handsome face, look.” Baekhyun proceeds to poke said handsome face. Chanyeol is too exhausted to protest. “But always says he has to work and work and work or some shit. Like a relationship virgin.”

Jongin jumps up and down and Chanyeol keeps an eye on him with an anxious touch. “It’s mine, too!” Jongin says excitedly. “My first relationship, too!”

Baekhyun groans and throws his head back. “Oh God, you’re both too unreal.”

 

 

♕♕♕

Jongin manages to convince Chanyeol to go home and rest.

“I’m fine!” Jongin says for the ninth time in the past ten minutes. Baekhyun has gone home already, saying he’ll be back to visit his ‘love virgins’ again. Jongin hugs the remote closely to his chest and pointing to the TV. “I’m just going to watch TV. I’m okay, just go home and rest.”

Chanyeol seems wary. “I’m going to be back in an hour,” he says cautiously. “Please call me if you need anything, but I’ll be back.”

His eyes are glazed over with a film of something Jongin can’t pinpoint. He has a backpack slung over his shoulder that looks too small against him. His face is splashed with water from the bathrooms down the hall but it doesn’t take away the worn out skin.

“Please don’t.” Jongin looks at him, _really_ looks at him. For the first time, his eyes don’t waver and neither does his voice. Chanyeol stops in his tracks, his back tensed as he waits for Jongin to continue. “I don’t know why, and you don’t have to tell me. But Baekhyun says you’re afraid of hospitals and I can’t _do that to you._ Even if you come back I’ll just be asleep and I want you to sleep in your own bed not in those—those plastic and stupid chairs you have been lounging in for the past few days!”

Jongin, sweet Jongin, the boy that lived in the little red house in Yeonhui.

Jongin, the boy who dances on the flat of his feet and falls flat on his face.

Jongin, the boy who rarely raises his voice.

“So just stay home,” Jongin’s words start to wobble before he swallows them. “Just sleep and eat right, alright? I’m going to be okay here. Do it for me, hyung.”

“Jongin,” Chanyeol breathes out. “I…alright.”

In two quick steps Chanyeol is by the side of his bed, nestling his injured arm against his chest while the other steadies himself on the side as he leans down again to take in his mouth. Even if they’ve kissed before in better places, this one feels just as affectionate as the ones shared in Chanyeol’s messy bed. His forehead bumps his but he doesn’t mind, neither of them do. It’s a chaste kiss, but it leaves Jongin all giddy.

“You make me not want to leave you when you laugh like that.”

Chanyeol taps his nose and chuckles along with him, their laughter making up for the lack of life in the hospital room. Jongin watches him walk away slowly, the man walking straighter than before.

“Wait, hyung.” Chanyeol makes a ‘ _hmm?’_ sound. “Did anyone come to the hospital? Did Sehun or Luhan?” Jongin gulps as he wrings his hands together. It’s almost hard these days, to say those names. To him, those names died in the red house they lived in. The idea of Sehun is broken down just like the furnace, and there are cracks in the concept of Luhan just like the walls.

In the body of Jongin though, those all exist as well.

“Luhan has been…making a scene,” Chanyeol says quietly, almost as if he doesn’t want Jongin to hear. “I haven’t given anyone the hospital address except for Sojin. Yoora felt as if that would be best for you.” _You don’t deserve that,_ he means to say.

Jongin doesn’t say anything, taking it all in.

“I can give it to them, if you really want.” Underlying pain in his voice. “But I want to talk to you about Sehun.”

Jongin looks away. “I know,” he admits softly. “I know about him. I knew on that day.”

“Jongin—”

“I don’t want them to know.” He looks back at him again, passing off his blurry eyes for sleepy ones. “Let’s both sleep comfortably, Chanyeol. We can talk tomorrow.”

Chanyeol leaves reluctantly, and Jongin is left all alone.

He breathes out, letting it course through his upper body like the cold. He can’t feel anything lower than his thighs, though. A muffled cry racks through his chest as well. All of the smiles and laughter from earlier withers away as Jongin realizes he’s the lone companion.

 _His role,_ Jongin can’t help but think of it. Sehun, a stranger who wears the same face as his best friend did, has the role. He’s Myrth, the King of the Wilis. He wonders now, if Sehun is sitting and waiting for his costume to be fitted to him; to fit every ripple of ribcage bone and to hug his small waist that Jongin remembers holding onto when they went on bike rides. Unless he had his costume beforehand, already mended for him without Jongin knowing.

Jongin feels sick, his stomach lurching and leaving his skin slicked with sweat. He wonders if Sehun is happy, he wonders if Sehun really cared about him at all.

He holds wrists close to one another, like in chains. Rocking back and forth, his wretched sobs turn silent, until he can only open his mouth to get a puff of air or a wheeze out. _It hurts so bad,_ he thinks to himself, his hands clawing up the back of his neck until he’s holding his head in a clutch. _Oh my God, it hurts so bad._

He kicks his blanket off, his leg numb and he swears he can’t a feel damn thing. His role, his role that he had cultivated into a fragment of him, is no longer his. His Sehun is dead, his Sehun is gone.

An hour later, his eyes are dried and his bones feel heavy. The skin around his eyes are a fleshy red, from all the rubbing and uncontrollable tears. His mouth is parched and his tongue is thick in his mouth as he strains his arm out to take the glass of water that Baekhyun filled for him hours ago.

He drinks, and drinks and drinks and drinks until the water splutters from his mouth and Jongin nearly loses a holding on the cup.

“Be strong,” Jongin whispers for himself after a fit of coughs. “Be strong, damn it.”

He glances over at his phone, which has been resting on the table beside all the roses, presumably bought by Chanyeol. The flowers are all stuck in stick-thin vases and pots that are painted with abstract patterns. Jongin cracks a smile, even if no one else sees.

Phone in hand, his fingers fumble to turn it on. It’s cold, untouched by anyone for days. The phone screen flashes onto the default background, one Jongin never bothered to change. Notifications pile on his phone, most of them from Sojin and the rest are from several others such as Jongdae, Minseok, and Soojung. _Minseok and Soojung?_ Jongin inhales sharply, seeing their familiar contact names with the emoticons picked out for them.

But they’re Sehun’s friends, aren’t they?

He scrolls down to the bottom of the screen until he gets to the last notification bar. It’s a lone voice mail, the name ‘Lu Han’ next to [Missed Call (1)]. Pressing in his password, his thumb hovers over the voice mail, unsure whether to press OK or not.

 _Luhan,_ Jongin isn’t sure who he is anymore.

Frustrated, he shoves his phone under his pillow and curls into a fragile position in the bed. Jongin rips off the IV fluid tube, the tape all sticky to his skin and he lulls himself into sleep, sniffles and all. His hair is all tousled against the stiff pillow and his skin is itchy and sweaty with exhaustion.

But for once, all is quiet.

Jongin doesn’t cry anymore that night, his misery replaced with muddy dreams of roses and children’s books.

 

 

♕♕♕

He wakes up to the sound of a man with a potty mouth. Jongin stirs in his sleep, unsure whether it’s his dreams or something else, _someone_ else, actually. His chest burns when he tosses to the other side, and he hears someone hiss and mutter something quickly, his voice so low he’s not sure if it’s Korean or not.

“I thought you said your boyfriend is a heavy sleeper!” Baekhyun mutters, and Jongin peeks through the slits of his eyes to confirm what his ears tell him. Sure enough, even through his sleepy vision, Jongin can make out Baekhyun’s bubbly pink hair, all tied up in a tuft of ponytail on the top of his head. Jongin thinks he looks like an apple, though he’s not sure.

“I said he sleeps well, but he’s not going to fucking sleep through the ruckus you’re making.” Jongin knows for certain that it’s Chanyeol speaking. His wrist is still slung up in a cast, but he looks fresher and more alert than yesterday. Jongin fully opens his eyes at the sight of Chanyeol, a broad smile spreading across his mouth without him realizing at all.

Baekhyun blinks before doubling over in laughter. “Sorry, Jongin!” he says through his fit. He’s holding onto a leather backpack, his hands smeared with charcoal and graphite across dainty fingers. Chanyeol looks at him apologetically, making a beeline to his side. “We were trying to come in without you waking up but,” he shrugs.

Chanyeol pulls up a chair from underneath him and pushes Jongin’s hair up from his face, eyes domesticated and his hair brushed into the gentle wave that Jongin finds himself loving more and more each day.

“Did you sleep well?” Chanyeol asks worriedly. “I know these beds are uncomfortable and could really do a number on your back. Are you okay?” He looks over at his IV bag and frowns.

“I took it off because it was poking me,” Jongin says quickly. “It’s okay, I don’t need it.”

Baekhyun is humming loudly in the back, wiggling his butt as he digs through his bag. Chanyeol’s jovial face drops as he shoots Baekhyun a glare.

“Could you be quiet?” Chanyeol asks flatly. “You’re going to give Jongin a headache.”

Baekhyun squints up at him when he pulls his head out of his bag, mouthing a pack of paint in between his teeth. He tries to growls, but it ends up sounding muffled from the packet in his mouth. Chanyeol sighs and turns his attention back to Jongin.

“Oh, right.” Chanyeol pulls out his bag and rummages through, the sound of things bumping against one another keeps Jongin staring. “The air is really dry in here. Your hands are going to get rough.” Chanyeol intertwines his hand through Jongin’s, and it’s only then that he sees all the cracks lining up his hands. Feeling self conscious, Jongin tries to pull them away but Chanyeol tightens his grip on his.

“It’s okay, I can put it on,” says Jongin, but the other man pretends not to hear as he flips open the bottle of lotion with one hand. The baby blue bottle seems so tiny in Chanyeol’s hand as he squeezes out a generous amount onto Jongin’s hands, lathering it across the skin.

“My hands were always dry when I worked in the hospital in Busan,” Chanyeol says easily, focusing his attention on smoothing out Jongin’s hands. The younger one perks up. This is the first time he has ever heard Chanyeol talk so freely about his old work, let alone his old life that he left behind. “So I used to always carry out a moisturizer in my back pocket.”

“My hands are always dry, too!” Baekhyun pipes up, falling back onto one of the other seats as he pats Jongin’s leg. He bats his lashes up at Chanyeol dramatically. “Will you put some lotion on my hands too, Chanyeol-ah? Lather me up real good."

“Oh, screw off, Baek.”

Hands still sticky, Jongin’s not sure where to put them. So instead, he keeps them raised in the air over his head.

Baekhyun chuckles at the sight. “What are you doing?”

“Drying them,” Jongin says, looking up at them. “I don’t know where else to keep them.”

Chanyeol ruffles up his hair and Baekhyun looks at the two of them knowingly. “Well, I guess Chanyeol has a thing for cuties.” The artist tugs on his flop of pink in the ponytail with a scrunched up nose. “Did you know, Jongin, that I thought Chanyeol was training to be a monk or something because he wouldn’t date anyone. I knew he was into men and all but he kept turning down every person I shoved at him that had a penis. But I guess he really does like you!”

Chanyeol shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “Stop talking, for the love of God, stop talking.”

“Chanyeol-hyung is my first, too.” Jongin leans back, resting his head on the backboard. He has rubbed almost all the sleep away from his eyes. Baekhyun is continuously stroking his cast with a dreamy look to his face. He leans closer to Chanyeol and lowers his voice. “What is Baekhyun-hyung doing?”

“I am trying to find my artistic muse!” Baekhyun says animatedly, throwing his hand in the hair with a theatrical touch to it. “Chanyeol here says you like lavender and roses. Chanyeol also had only left your side to buy roses from the flower shop across the street.” He points to the table filled with roses on every corner and edge.

“I do like lavender and roses,” Jongin says, looking over at the tiny makeshift flower bed. “They make me feel calm and relaxed.”

Baekhyun clasps his hands together loudly making Chanyeol and Jongin jump. “Good! My artistic muse has been awoken!” he shouts, throwing his head back so that his apple hair bobs. “How do you feel about me painting your cast?”

“My cast?”

Chanyeol gives a small smile. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he admits softly. “You’re going to be stuck in that cast for weeks and I wanted you to at least feel comfortable with it. Baekhyunnie offered to change it up for you.”

“That’s so thoughtful!” Jongin beams. All of last night’s worries disperse off his chest and he’s left feeling light again. “I’d love to have a colorful cast, especially from Hongdae’s artist.”

Baekhyun looks smug for a moment. “Hongdae’s artist? Ohh, I like that.” He points to Chanyeol. “Quick, make note that I’m changing my business cards from ‘Byun Baekhyun’ to ‘Hongdae’s Artist’.”

Chanyeol snorts. Jongin hasn’t seen him so carefree with someone else, and it makes his insides all fuzzy and warm. “Don’t feed his ego, Jongin-ah. It’s already a monster.” Chanyeol chucks the lotion bottle at Baekhyun’s head and misses. “And Jongin is only saying that because you’re the only artist in Hongdae he knows!”

“You didn’t have to tell me that!”

Jongin giggles. Something in him hopes that every morning can be like this, filled to the brim with laughter and hearty conversations. He wouldn’t mind it replacing the cold showers and hand-holding from a dead friend.

“Hmm,” Baekhyun muses. He rests his head on the edge of the bed. He pulls a handful of paint tubes and spreads it across his lap. “I won’t take long, okay, Jongin? You just relax with your Chanyeol over there and get all lovey-dovey. But be mindful of me, please.”

_His Chanyeol._

Chanyeol rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Baekhyun has no filter on him. He’s all talk and paints though, so he’s basically harmless.” Baekhyun grunts in disapproval, but Chanyeol ignores him. “Did you sleep okay? I can ask the nurses to change the plastic wrappings to a more cotton material. It must be hard, sitting in a pool of sweat huh?” He grimaces, a sorry on his lips as he traces his hand across Jongin’s skin.

“I slept well,” Jongin says honestly. “Did you?”

Chanyeol nods. Baekhyun is squeezing paint onto a plastic palette, eyes gleaming like a child in a toy shop. “I don’t feel as gross anymore,” he says, pulling out easy laughter from him. Laughter comes easy now, when his wrists aren’t chained by anyone else. “The nurses are going to bring in your breakfast later, make sure you eat alright?”

“I will,” Jongin looks down at himself. He feels thinner, and for once he isn’t happy about it.

“You were out because your brain shut down,” Chanyeol says, nearly inaudible. “Stress factors. Please, _please,_ take it easy with everything alright? It’s not healthy, how you shut down like that.”

Jongin nods, hoping that a bright face will help ease the cloudy look from Chanyeol’s. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of myself.” He looks away. “I don’t have the ballet to worry about anymore, at least.”

Chanyeol flinches at that.

“I...”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jongin pats his hand. “Let’s talk about that another time.”

Baekhyun is humming out of tune to some new music hits, his entire body wiggling and shifting around as he does so. Chanyeol toys with Jongin’s fingers mindlessly, the nurse coming in with a tray of food for them two. Jongin’s hand falls limp in Chanyeol’s when the nurse eyes them curiously, but Chanyeol keeps his in his, even when the nurse leaves.

Jongin peers over at his cast, amazed by the color palette Baekhyun has swirled up. “Don’t look just yet,” he says cheekily. “It’s a surprise, from the Hongdae Artist!”

Chanyeol is opening up Jongin’s orange juice carton for him, wincing when he has to use his injured wrist to hold it. “Hyung!” Jongin says hastily, pulling it away before he can finish opening it. “You’re injured, don’t use that hand.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jongin.”

“Did you really hurt yourself falling in the orchestra pit with me?” Jongin asks in one breath. Even Baekhyun looks up, one eyebrow raised and interested. Chanyeol stiffens at the question.

“I don’t know what I even did,” Chanyeol confesses, cheeks just as pink as Baekhyun’s hair. “But it wasn’t much.”

“Shut up,” Baekhyun interjects. “You broke his fall and saved him from the worst of it. At least give yourself some credit, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol shoots him a wilting glare through his glasses. In the spur of the moment, with him distracted with Baekhyun, Jongin leans in quickly and plants a kiss on the man’s cheek. Baekhyun lets out another signatory hoot of laughter when Chanyeol looks back at him, all cherry faced and wide-eyed.

“Thank you, hyung.” Jongin breathes out, eyes roaming all over Chanyeol’s face. He looks at the small scratches that sits on the edge of his face, the kind that may leave scars if he doesn’t treat it right. Maybe he’ll ask Yoora to bandage it all up and scold her little brother about it.

Baekhyun is running his paint brush across the white cast happily, a pale lilac color in detail. Jongin swallows down spoonful after spoonful of rice, cringing after each mouthful.

“The rice is so dry,” he whispers, afraid to offend any nurses even if they’re not here. Chanyeol nods sympathetically and pats down the back of his head lovingly, coaxing him into the murky porridge that sloshes around in a foam cup. He manages to take it all down with a quick kiss from Chanyeol on his forehead.

“You’re like a couple from some boring romantic comedy nobody watches,” Baekhyun teases. “For every spoonful Jongin gets down Chanyeol gives him an adoring kiss. This is the kind of movie that dies in the theaters.”

“I like those romantic comedies,” Jongin says, resting his head on Chanyeol’s shoulder. “They’re so happy.”

An hour passes, all the bowls and cups stacked up on the tray on the floor. Baekhyun is fed a chocolate bar by Chanyeol as he’s bent over and painting every rose with precision. Baekhyun’s usual silly expression is wiped away by furrowed eyebrows and eyes hardened into concentration.

A knock comes on the door, and Yoora pokes her head through. Her face is afflicted with dull eyes and her usual jaunty-self seems to be of a distant thought. Her hair is down and unstyled as she lets herself in. She lets out a sigh of relief when she sees Jongin, pressing the flat of her palm to her chest as she shuts her eyes for a moment.

“Oh dear, oh dear.” Yoora advances towards him with open arms as she holds back glistening tears. “You’re alright, oh, Jongin, I’m so glad you’re alright.”

She’s broken, and anyone can see that in the way her eyes are half-lidded. Baekhyun takes away from his attention on painting his cast, and there’s worry in the way he looks at her.

“Noona,” Jongin starts off when she pulls him into a crushing hug. He thinks about Sehun and her, and what will happen. A thought nudges at him, making him think about whether or not it was real or not, their relationship. “I’m okay, I’m okay so don’t worry about it.”

Yoora dabs at her eyes carefully. She’s not wearing any makeup though, and Jongin still finds the beauty shared between the two siblings striking. Her eyes fall on Chanyeol and her shoulders slump.

“I need to talk to you,” she says. She’s clutching onto her bag with a death grip, her fingers flashing red and white from the pressure. “And hello, Baekhyun. I’m sorry Jongin for taking him away from you.”

“It’s alright,” Jongin shakes his head. Conflict flickers across Chanyeol’s face when he stands up, untangling his hand from Jongin’s.

“I’ll be back,” he murmurs, squeezing his shoulder one more time before nodding towards Baekhyun. “Look after him, okay?”

“Your lover isn’t going to die with me here,” Baekhyun mutters, but does a mock salute. “Don’t worry, I’ll watch over him.”

Chanyeol follows Yoora out the door. They can still hear them, the door not fully shut.

“What are you going to do?” Yoora asks, and Jongin sits up, trying to listen in with a guilty heart.

“What do you mean?”

“Your job. You can’t stay there, it’s too toxic for the two of you.”

Frustration. “I can’t just resign.”

“Yes you can! You can turn in your papers and leave. You didn’t go to medical school for so many years just to work in that freak show. Chanyeol, you know how I am uneasy about the Director there.”

“I can’t leave Jongin there.”

Silence. Baekhyun clears his throat awkwardly.

“We have to do something, Chanyeol. I don’t care how much the salary is there.”

Sharp intake of breath. “It’s not about the salary! I can’t find a job anywhere else. Yoora, this is as far as I can get when it comes to hospitals. I’m not going to hold another scalpel. I can’t work like real doctors anymore—”

Baekhyun throws his brush and palette down and skitters to the door, shutting it completely. “We don’t have to hear that. You, don’t have to hear that.” He runs his hands down his sides with a faint grin. “Don’t give me that depressing look, let’s just carry on with painting, yeah?”

“Why is Chanyeol afraid of hospitals?” Jongin asks, and yet this question always goes unanswered. “Why can’t he work in a hospital anymore?”

Baekhyun grimaces, the brush in his paint wobbling. “Has he told you anything?”

Jongin hesitates. “He told me about his therapy in Canada. How he worked with children for his health.”

“And you’re not bothered by it?” A shake of the head. “That’s...I’m glad. Chanyeol hasn’t encountered many people that stayed in his life after knowing. People aren’t all for change, you know? The moment you say the word ‘children’ and ‘need’ in one sentence, they start thinking you’re a pedophile.” Cheery, lovely Baekhyun, is bitter.

“He’s not a pedophile.” Jongin looks down at his hand. “Even if everyone thinks that.” Luhan. Sehun. The theatre and their laughter.

“He just needs some innocence and an escape from adulthood,” Baekhyun continues tiredly, wiping his hands down of all the orchid and wine colored paint. “Adults can’t offer that, but children can just hold your hand and all the stress will go away.”

Muffled talking between Chanyeol and Yoora continues.

“You’ll have to wait for him to tell you. It’s not my place to say. But,” he pauses. “I hope you know, he really does care for you. Maybe the word ‘love’ is too early or terrifying, but he cares a lot.”

“I know,” Jongin says weakly. He thinks of Chanyeol, the way he is so strikingly kind. His ears sticking out like a peace offering; his eyes too wide and too naked. It doesn't take a genius to see the kind of vulnerability in the man's eyes. It also doesn't take much to like him. When he laughs—which is often—he squeezes his eyes shut so there are crinkles that corner his lashes, teeth showing deliberately between chapped lips and smile lines. He's unearthly; like an elf from painted medieval stories. He's lovely.

He’s broken.

He’s someone that Jongin never thought he would share the same path with. The path that Jongin had divided between drug lovers, smokers, and ballet dancers. It’s now just the two of them, and all the cigarettes and the dash of Mary Jane and play dates with Charlie are gone. Almost, gone.

“I wasn’t there at the theatre when everything happened,” Baekhyun clears his throat. “I haven’t been there for him at all. I’m what you call a shit friend, but I know it’s hard for him, not to lash out and everything. He’s trying to stay clean and professional, even if I offered to slap those guys.”

Baekhyun holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers to lighten up the mood. “You have pretty hands,” Jongin says dejectedly, even if he tries to sound a bit more upbeat. “What do you mean stay clean?”

“Pretty hands to slap a bitch.” Baekhyun shrugs noncommittally. “He told you about his violent issues as a teenager, right? Poor guy, still blaming himself for his father’s doing.” He clicks his tongue in discontent and shakes his head.

Jongin looks at the door. His chest constricts at the thought of Chanyeol’s inner turmoil, and he wonders if he’s okay. Baekhyun catches his face and reaches over and pats his knee with his elbow. Jongin looks back in surprise, watching Baekhyun continue to stroke his knee in a comforting matter.

“My hands are all tied up with paint, so my elbow.”

“Oh.”

Baekhyun squeezes out a bit more out of the tube and mixes it with a fresh paintbrush. “You really do wear your heart on your sleeve, huh?” he muses. “I can see it your face, clear as the damn day. Don’t worry about it, Jongin. He’s a strong guy, you just have to give him time and let him crawl out of his children’s books one day. I still think he’s living in ‘Peter Pan’ or something like that.”

“What do you mean?” Jongin asks, sitting up. He keeps himself occupied with watching Baekhyun paint on the cast, hoping he won’t notice the way his hands fidget uncontrollably, palms sweaty and an assortment of warm shades. “I’m the one that has to do some growing up.” He tries to pass it off as a joke, but Baekhyun twists his nose into a thinking face.

“You seem pretty mature,” Baekhyun offers, a genuine tint to his voice. “And it’s not about growing up when it comes with Chanyeol. I just think that he has been hiding from adults for so long he’s living with fictional characters at this point.”

Jongin tugs on his ear nervously. The smell of paint swirls around him in a revitalizing aura. “I’m not mature,” he admits falteringly. “I still can’t ride a bike alone or know how to work the ATM. I also can’t order drinks at bars without stuttering.”

Baekhyun snorts, wiping his hands down with a paper towel. Jongin has decided he likes Byun Baekhyun, the one who likes oil paint more than he likes people. The one who has wild bubblegum hair and is Chanyeol’s closest friend.

“Chanyeol couldn’t even stay in one place, that restless dumbass. He was worrying over what to say or how to comfort you when news broke out about your injury and your role.” Baekhyun’s smile turns rueful. “You’re handling it really well. I’m not even sure how you’re so calm, either. I think that’s mature, real mature.”

Jongin isn’t sure how to feel anymore. So instead, he takes Baekhyun’s word for it, because men in colored hair seem trustworthy, unlike those with sleepy eyes and nighttime black hair; the kind that has ceiling chips tucked in between each curl of untouched hair. Those kind of people, those kind of fuckers are the kind Jongin second guesses about now.

Chanyeol comes back, all shaken up. “Sorry about that,” he says, apologizing profusely. “She just wanted to ask me how you were, and I’m, well, I...”

“Baekhyun-hyung is almost done on my cast,” Jongin says with a gentle voice. Baekhyun seems to be amused as he flicks his wrist and dabs his finger into a glob of wintergreen paint and sharpen the bristle of his brush with his mouth. Chanyeol whirls around and his face tightens.

“Don’t do that, Baekhyun.” The man jumps, blinking as he is caught. “You’re going to get mercury poisoning.”

“Ttch,” Baekhyun dismisses him and strokes on bristly leaves on the cast. It looks like a garden on his leg, and Jongin feels a bit more beautiful. “You won’t understand artists. That’s what they teach you in art school, you know? Kill yourself for your canvas. What did they teach you in medical school?”

Chanyeol folds up newspapers into a crisp crease and hands Jongin one to flip through. “They taught me how to overcome the fear of blood.”

“Boring,” Baekhyun mocks. “In art school, they make you fear your own blood.”

Jongin doesn’t say anything as he pretends not to listen, running his finger down the news column of events he doesn’t care for. In a voice that doesn’t exist, he thinks about what they teach you in ballet academy—that blood in your ballet flats makes you more of a man.

(Less of a human)


	20. The Sacrificial Lamb

Baekhyun packs up his tools, his hands smeared in all sorts of purple and red. There’s a coral paint streak in the corner of his mouth, and neither of them know how it got there. His shirt is covered in another palette of paint splatters. In a sense, he is a canvas, and today’s paints are another mark on him.

“I’d let it dry before you touch it,” Baekhyun warns him. He pulls out the elastic in his hair and his pink hair flops out, showing Jongin his dark roots. “You make a good human canvas, Jongin. Did you know some artists make their model sprawl out naked as they paint them?” He winks, and Chanyeol smacks him upside the head.

“Stop running your mouth to dark places,” Chanyeol mutters. Baekhyun giggles and stuffs the last of his paint tubes into his bag and waves to Jongin. “Do you need a ride home?”

Baekhyun shakes his head. “I’m not going home. I need to head to the studio to clean up for tomorrow. I have a class.”

“I hope I didn’t keep you,” Jongin says guiltily. “You stayed the whole day painting on my cast.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Baekhyun waves his hand around. “I had no appointments today. Plus, it was fun. It was good seeing Chanyeol happy.”

Chanyeol coughs stiffly. Baekhyun pats him on the back and pinches Jongin’s cheeks. “It was nice meeting you again, Baekhyun-hyung. Thank you for the beautiful cast.”

“No problem. Ask Chanyeol to give you my number? You make a good muse.”

And with that, Baekhyun strides out of the hospital room, whistling to some song that Jongin doesn’t know. Chanyeol smiles a nostalgic smile, before pulling up the stiff plastic chair beside Jongin’s bed. He pulls Chanyeol’s hand into his lap again, fiddling with the visitor’s bracelet that wraps around his wrist.

“The cast makes me feel beautiful,” Jongin says to break the silence. “Baekhyun is so talented.”

“He breathes in oil paint fumes and paint thinners,” Chanyeol says dryly. “He’s really dedicated. I can tell he likes you.”

Jongin looks down at his cast, trying not to move around too much so the towel under his leg doesn’t shift and get paint on the sheets. There’s blooming lavender roses that courses up the white cast, diverging into smaller buds that have yet to grow. The thorns are a piercing green, a stark contrast to all the sleepy colors of flowers.

He feels at peace, seeing the color lavender.

“Is Yoora-noona okay?”

Chanyeol stops breathing for a few seconds, and lets out a steady breath. “Yeah, she’s fine.” Lie.

“Did Sehun break her heart?”

_He broke mine._

Chanyeol hugs his injured wrist against his chest while the other rests in Jongin’s grasp. “How did you find out?” he asks, his eyes fluttering shut. It doesn’t take much to see how his bottom lip quivers in anger, his eyes jumping around under thin skin.

Jongin ignores the pinch in his heart. “Joonmyun. He called me in and showed me, and I saw what happened in the storage room.” The sloppy and uneven kiss shared between Yixing and Sehun. His name being spat out like tobacco. The place where his Sehun died, the place where Jongin learned that maybe his Sehun never existed at all. “Did you know? Sehun, he—he _hates_ me.” Jongin laughs, and it sounds so bitter and broken that they both don’t know how to breathe.

Chanyeol looks pained. “Jongin, I’m sorry.”

Jongin shakes his head. He had cried all last night. His eyes are dry now, and for that he is grateful. “How did you find out? I know you did, the way you dragged Sehun off stage.” The way Sehun smiled at him like he still cared. Jongin pinches himself as a way of punishment, hating and hating and _hating_ himself.

Chanyeol bites down hard on his lip. “I forced it out from Joonmyun,” he whispers like it’s a secret. “I made him tell me. But I don’t know what to do. Fuck, Jongin, _I don’t know what to do._ ” He drops his head into the edge of the bed, his hand curling into the flimsy hospital sheets.

Jongin remembers what Baekhyun says, about Chanyeol and his struggles. “You don’t have to do anything about it.” An ‘ _I’m fine’_ sits between them.

“You don’t deserve that.”

“We don’t deserve much.”

“Sehun,” Chanyeol starts. “I thought he was good.”

Jongin rubs at his eyes. It’s not to wipe away tears, he’s just tired. “I’m sure he is.” Sigh. “Just not to me.” His Sehun existed for other people, but his Sehun is also dead. Dead to him.

You shouldn’t trust people who have constellations in their hair.

He rips away memories of Sehun, letting himself bask in the glorious shit of it all. The ugly laughter shared between them on movie nights, when they don’t have to fake their ‘pretty’ giggles for anyone. The hand holding in showers passed off as an obsession. The post-it notes with messy handwriting when Jongin can’t hear during his Todds. He hates himself, almost, for believing in the lanky teenager who promised him that they’d be principal dancers together, friends ‘til hell do them apart.

What a fucking liar.

“He wanted my role,” Jongin says dully. “Sehun wanted to be Myrtha of the Wilis. And he told me that it’s alright. That the roles didn’t matter. But he still—” hiccup. “He called me a mental kid.”

Fleeting hatred bleeds across Chanyeol’s face.

_It’s alright._

“He loved Luhan,” Jongin continues. His leg and arm aches, and so does his chest. He recalls with a vivid memory the way Sehun swung his legs around eagerly, his words spluttering as he kept clinging onto scrawny little Jongin. Little Sehun that looked up to Luhan with overwhelming adoration.

That Sehun is still alive, Jongin thinks.

Chanyeol’s face is still gray. He holds onto the edge of the bed with a steely grip. He’s holding back, and Jongin hopes he continues to.

“And maybe that’s why he stopped loving me, or caring for me.” Jongin wants to take a shower, to hide in the hot water until he falls asleep. He smiles just as awfully as Luhan did. “I don’t think he loved me at all.”

“Don’t say that,” Chanyeol says slowly, shutting his eyes tightly. “You...you deserve to be loved in all the right ways.”

Loved in all the right ways, he wonders how?

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Lie. “I’m okay. I’m alright.” More lies.

“He was the one who spread the rumors,” Chanyeol forces out quickly, coughing in the end as if it had been choking him all this time. “Sehun, I mean.”

It’s cliche to say that time stopped, but something did, at least for that moment.

Jongin pales. “Huh?”

Chanyeol hides his face. Jongin wants to hide from the world. “It wasn’t Luhan that spread the rumors about me,” he says faintly. “It was—it was Sehun. I don’t know how it came about that Luhan was the scapegoat, but it did.”

Jongin can’t feel anything. “No, no, no. That’s not, but I,” he swallows. “But Luhan said he did it. And he didn’t...he didn’t clear himself up or anything.” _No, no, no._ A small bit of him hopes that Chanyeol is just mistaken, that Luhan did it. That the only fault Sehun has to his name is hating Jongin. _You’re sick,_ a thought hisses at him. _You’re fucking sick, Jongin._

Chanyeol looks ill as he talks, his words heavier and his shoulders hunched. “I’m sorry.”

It should be Luhan’s fault, that torn up thought that shakes up Jongin’s skull. It should be, it should be, _it should be._ Sehun’s fault is hating Jongin, that’s how it should be. Luhan’s fault is being a lover to angst and rumors. _That’s the way it should be._ That’s the script.

“No, no, no.” Jongin shrinks away, though there’s nowhere to go. “Luhan did it. _He did it._ Sehun couldn’t. He’s, that’s not his doing. That’s not what he does!”

His Sehun truly died that night, in the storage room of the ballet shoes, and the second time in a hospital room shared with ghosts and Jongin.

Jongin finds himself jerking his only working hand up to his hair and digging his nails into his roots, his eyes shutting firmly until he sees stars. He has convinced himself that it’s okay that Sehun doesn’t love him, that Sehun hasn’t been his friend. But there are breaking points. There are plenty. He rocks his head back and forth as a wretched cry tears itself away from his mouth, sounding ugly in the air. But there are no tears, just a raw voice thicken with everything he had lost. Everything, that wronged them both.

Chanyeol tries to soothe Jongin by holding him by both his arm with one hand. lulling him into ease with his low whispers of ‘it’s alright, it’s alright,’ and ‘God, please don’t cry’. Jongin shakes his head over and over again. _Luhan,_ he thinks. The thirty-year-old man that doesn’t look a day over nineteen. Yet, on some days he seems like he’s an hour away from death, the way he swings his leg on the edge of the Han river until the typical patrol car slows by and begs for him to get off the ledge, even if he’s not intending on dying. It’s easy to blame him, Jongin finds out just that.

A scapegoat.

The sacrificial lamb.

Jongin doesn’t cry, but he lets Chanyeol rock him back and forth. Apologies tumble out of Jongin’s mouth and Chanyeol can’t stop him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh God, I’m sorry.” Jongin buries his face into Chanyeol’s shirt, wrinkling it. “I’m so sorry Chanyeol, I didn’t know. _I didn’t know.”_

“It’s not your fault,” Chanyeol says gently, holding him like a teddy bear. “You’re not responsible.”

He thinks of Luhan, walking down the corridor of the halls, aware of all Sehun’s doings.

“Your job,” Jongin whispers. “Yoora’s clinic, they’re being damaged.”

Chanyeol shakes his head. “Rumors hurt, but Yoora and I are strong.” He strokes the back of Jongin’s head in easy and slow motions. It eases Jongin out of his panic. Out of his disbelief. “But you, are _you_ okay? Sehun was close to you.”

His Sehun is dead. His Sehun never existed.

There comes a time during the night, where he can’t feel his skin or bones. Jongin can only feel Chanyeol’s hot breath behind his ear as his hand finds a way to rub circles onto his back. Jongin’s quicken and heightened breaths settle back into a normal pace, but his thoughts are still a whirlwind of confusion, distrust, and blurred memories.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I never thought that Sehun would…”

“We never do, I’m sorry Jongin.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“He hates me.”

His world has come crashing down, in a sense.

And during these late hours, he wonders if it’s for the best.

♕♕♕

A day later, he’s discharged.

Jongin eyes the manila folder of paper works concerning his Todd syndrome and the painkillers he has to take. Nurses and doctors complimented the art on his cast, to which Jongin just shyly nods and whispers a ‘thank you’.

The sweater that Yoora had brought him is too big on him, and Jongin learns that it comes from Chanyeol’s closet. The cast on his arm is heavy and is etched with doodles on the boring moments Jongin has when Chanyeol isn’t there with him.

“How do these wheels work?” Jongin fumbles with one hand, trying to find a firm grip on the wheel. Chanyeol shakes his head and hands him his bag. “How do you push?”

“I’ll push for now,” says Chanyeol. “You can’t do it with one hand anyways.”

“You have one hand, too!” Jongin retorts. “Your wrist is sprained.”

Chanyeol dismisses him with a shrug. He pushes up his glasses and settles down in front of Jongin, crouching. He runs his hand across the cast, admiring Baekhyun’s work of lavender roses on it. Jongin decides to cherish the sight, of the grown man on his knees tracing every painted rose with light in his eyes. He ties Jongin’s shoe on the other foot, making a bunny knot.

“Ready to go home?” Chanyeol asks, muzzling up his hair. Jongin nods hesitantly, hugging his bag of books and magazines that Chanyeol brought for him.

“Is home with you?” Jongin asks sheepishly. He’s afraid of the answer, and what that means for the broken family in that little red house. Chanyeol stands up and walks around, pushing him slowly down the hall and away from the desk. In his hand is another file folder, perhaps updates on his migraines and his Todd syndrome, and a list of fancy medical terms that brings a headache to his thoughts.

“I want home to be with you.”

The air has never been this fresh when Jongin is wheeled out of the hospital. Jongin, feeling self-conscious, tugs on his shirt so that it pulls up to cover his chin. Aware of all the band-aids and bruises on his face, his cheeks flush and he lets the cool air run it off.

“It’s spring now,” Jongin says, though it’s obvious.

“Yeah, it is.”

“I met you in winter,” Jongin continues, as Chanyeol pulls the two of them towards the parking lot. He sees Yoora leaning against the side of the car, her face still full of sorrow. Jongin wonders how Chanyeol confessed to her, that Sehun was a lover of others but not to her. “I met you in mid-January, I think.”

“And now it’s April,” Chanyeol muses. He waves to his sister, who stands up with a stumble. Yoora smiles weakly, but her eyes are almost back to the way they were, like pretty constellations short of a few stars. She rushes towards the two of them, handing a bag of sweets to Jongin.

“I picked these up from Old Noona,” Yoora tells him as he peeks through the bag. “Everyone in Yeonhui is wishing for your quick recovery.”

Jongin beams up at her, even if his heart chips. “Thank you, noona.” She pulls him into a hasty hug before taking the handles of the wheelchair away from her brother.

“You go carry Jongin into the car,” Yoora says, pushing him aside. “I’ll carry the wheelchair in.”

“Noona you’re going to hurt yourself—”

“Oh!” she shakes her head, waving him away with her painted nails. “Just go off, I’m a strong woman. A strong, independent woman who doesn’t need a bratty lil’ fucker of a man make her happy.” Yoora scowls, and Jongin can see that in that moment, she’s back to her old self.

Chanyeol blinks, clearly taken back. He looks over at Jongin quickly before dipping down and scooping him out of the chair.

“What are you doing?” Jongin asks, bewildered. He lets out a short yelp when Chanyeol puts Jongin’s arms around his neck. “Hyung, your _wrist,_ it’s sprained.”

“It’s only a minor sprain.” Chanyeol grunts opening the car door. “You’re so light, Jongin.”

“I’m a ballet dancer.”

He gingerly settles Jongin into the back seat, careful not to crush the bag of cookies Yoora gave him. Chanyeol climbs in after him, sitting beside him.

“Is noona okay?” Jongin asks in a meek voice. “With Sehun...”

Chanyeol clears his throat. “I think she slapped him,” he admits. “When you were still in the hospital, I think she went over and lashed out on him. I’m sure that’s her way of closure with him.”

“Oh.”

“She wants to take care of you. _We,_ want to take care of you.” Chanyeol interlaces his hand with his. “She has a bond with you now.”

They both were heartbroken by Sehun, a lover to one and an anchor to the other.

His Sehun is dead. Jongin is okay.

“If that’s alright with you,” Chanyeol continues nervously. “I don’t know where you want to go from here, but please don’t go back to that house. I don’t want you to be hurt or damaged again. I don’t want you to fall again.”

The little red house, where the furnace doesn’t work unless you kick a few times. It’s where a freak raised two lovers of misfits, even if one of them grew out of that shell. It’s a place that Jongin hasn’t grown up in.

“Let’s go home, Chanyeol.”

The car ride is all hush hush. Yoora sits in the driver’s seat, her hands gripping on the steering wheel so tightly that Chanyeol touches her shoulder, wordlessly telling her that it’s okay. Even the cookies in Jongin’s mouth don’t taste that sweet, not right now.

They drive back into Yeonhui, where all the neighbors and shops are still asleep. They drive past Jongin’s street, the most still of them all. The red house, where the paint chips on the window shutters and the grass hasn’t been mowed in weeks. Jongin holds his breath as they drive by, the house that he used to call home.

Now, it’s just a skeleton of childish dreams.

Chanyeol pushes Jongin in the wheelchair out of the driveway. The roses are all trimmed, Jongin can see that. His wonders of where they are are stopped short when he sees a vase of them sitting in the dining room. Jongin holds onto his bag tightly, staring up at the stairs that starts to cave in.

Panicking, he rubs at his eyes. _No, not another Todd, not another episode._ He continues to poke at his eye until they ache, pulling away. A sigh of relief is heard when his vision is still normal.

“Are you okay?” Chanyeol leans down, resting his hand on Jongin’s shoulder.

“How do I get up the stairs?” Jongin asks, tensed. He looks down at himself, and everything suddenly feels too real. He can’t dance, not for weeks. There’s no more plies or stretches, and no more running down the streets to catch the next train to the Seoul Theatre. It all builds up, and he chokes.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Chanyeol leans down across the back of the seat, landing a short kiss on the side of his cheek. “I’ll carry you up there, and we can bring the wheelchair up there, too. It’s no problem. We also have crutches, Yoora and I are going to take care of you.”

As if on cue, Yoora appears at the doorway with a bag of groceries, evident that she did some shopping earlier. Chanyeol steps aside and sits beside Jongin, who is still staring up at that stairs that seems all too menacing.

“Can I really stay here?” Jongin asks, his voice cracking. “This isn’t my house.”

It’s missing the secret cabinet of bad nightmares and the bathroom meant for purging.

Yoora pats the top of his head, her humming sounding like a drowsy lullaby. “It’s not your house, but it can be your home.” She bends down, so that her face levels next to Jongin’s. Yoora points up the stairs that taunts him. “You see those? We’re going to help you get up there, and down back here. Your bedroom can be the guest room, and I’ve changed the sheets already. It’s yours.”

“I...”

Yoora sighs, ushering for Chanyeol to stand up and shut the door. “You know, I’ve known you ever since I got out of medical school. You were just a little fourteen-year-old, I felt like your sister practically. So, this doesn’t feel weird for me.” She wraps her arms around his shoulders and rocks him back and forth. “So stay here. Stay here until you feel like you can go somewhere as an adult.”

“But Luhan...” _But Sehun._

Chanyeol stiffens. Yoora shoots him a warning look, one that speaks of relapses and careful choices. “We can deal with him.” She walks towards the dining room, hanging up her bag and jacket. “But for now, let’s just spend breakfast together before I head off to the clinic.”

“How’s the clinic?” Jongin asks, fiddling with his fingers anxiously. “Is it better?”

Yoora takes time to think at that. “Yes,” she says finally. “It’s getting better. Thank you, Jongin.”

True to his words, Chanyeol lifts Jongin out of the wheelchair and nuzzles his face into the crook of his neck. Laughter bursts out of Jongin, who rests his hand on his boyfriend’s chest. Chanyeol is cautious going up, but his face remains warm and full of life, his glasses nudging Jongin’s cheek.

He opens the door to the guest room—Jongin’s room—with his foot. The duvet is now a pastel blue that is easy on the eyes, and the desk has been cleared. The closet door peeks out at them, showcasing empty hangers for Jongin’s clothes.

Chanyeol lays Jongin across the bed, and the smell of lavender surrounds them both. “I washed the sheets with a lavender soap thing.” Chanyeol pats the flat of the bed. “I hope it’ll relax you when you’re scared.”

“Thank you.” Jongin turns on his side, conscious of his leg. It’s still early morning, and he bets that Luhan and Sehun are boarding the train together, either together or separate. His heart hurts thinking about them, but he turns his attention on the window.

“Is it cold? I’ll shut it for you.” Chanyeol stands up to close it but Jongin shakes his head and tugs on the man’s shirt.

“Don’t worry too much, hyung. I just wanted to admire the sky.”

Somehow, Jongin pulls Chanyeol down hard enough so that he’s resting on the other side of the bed. Jongin’s back is facing Chanyeol, whose arm is slung over Jongin’s waist, their fingers drumming to the same beat.

“What are you thinking about?” Chanyeol asks, his voice giving away how tired he is.

“Everything.” Jongin finds that it’s easier to breathe now. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“What do you want to happen?”

Jongin sinks back until his back hits Chanyeol’s chest. “I know Joonmyun is going to excused me for the rest of the season. I don’t know how I’m going to get back in again. I’m going to be rusty and my movement and position as a soloist, I’m _scared._ What if Sehun takes that away from me, too?”

Even if there’s a war in his thoughts, he feels safe against the older man.

“Your position was given to you because you’re talented, Jongin. I may not be a dancer and the only thing I have to my name is a doctor’s degree, but I can see it. I can see it in the way the other dancers eyed you during practice or how the instructors speak with you in nothing but praise in the physio. And Jongin, I’m so proud of you, I’m so fucking proud.”

Somewhere in between the Trojan war that aids aches in his head, Chanyeol becomes his lavender.

“But you are more than your position. You’re—” Chanyeol cuts off. “You’re _Kim Jongin,_ and you are more than a ballet dancer.”

Chanyeol carries him downstairs again, this time their steps come easy. Yoora is setting the table with headphones. She waves to them and points to the wheelchair next to Chanyeol’s seat.

“I made gaji-naegguk,” Yoora points to the bowl centered at the table. “Chanyeol said you like eggplant soup.”

“I do!” Jongin claps excitedly. Yoora brightens up as Chanyeol helps fill three bowls with rice.

They’re all sitting at the table, the television on with the daily news. Chanyeol rests his hand on Jongin’s thigh when Yoora isn’t looking, their legs brushing up against one another.

“How do you think we should go get Jongin’s stuff from the other place?” Yoora asks, trying to keep her voice light.

Chanyeol stops chewing. “I can go pick it up.” He glances over at Jongin. “I can do it tomorrow.”

“I want to get my stuff.”

Yoora and Chanyeol exchanges wary looks. “Jongin, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Yoora says, speaking for both of them. “I don’t know how Luhan’s mental state is, and Sehun,”

“He broke your heart.” Jongin looks down, squeezing his hand into a fist. He’s thankful that his working hand is the hand he uses the most. “It’s not right for noona to go to the house and run into him.”

“It’s not right for you either!” Chanyeol raises his voice, though it’s not him yelling. “Jongin, you need to rest and I’ll go pick it up.”

“There’s some things I have to get myself,” Jongin says urgently. “Hyung, I’m fine. I’m not scared of them.”

That’s a lie, but he’s a good actor.

“I’m not sure if you should go either.” Yoora points to his cheek. “He punched you, Chanyeol. Do you think a sister is going to let her little brother go near him like that?”

Chanyeol flinches, and Jongin nearly drops both of his chopsticks onto the floor.

“He did what?” Jongin asks incredulously. He turns to Chanyeol, cupping just one cheek and turning his head side to side. “You said you got this from falling!”

Chanyeol grimaces. “It was a poor swing anyways, Luhan didn’t do much.”

“Why did he hit you?” Jongin asks, his voice hollow.

Yoora stabs the bowl of kimchi with her chopsticks. “He wouldn’t tell him where the hospital was.” She sticks her tongue out at her brother. “He needed to know, Chanyeol. You’re not saving him by keeping things like this from him.”

Jongin pinches the bridge of his nose. “You should’ve told me,” he said, feeling lightheaded. “I’ll go get my things tomorrow.”

“You’re not going alone.”

“I’m not going to die,” Jongin says, sounding almost exasperated. Yoora looks like she’s almost sorry she said anything. The sweater he’s wearing engulfs his arms, and he thinks with a pit in his stomach that he’ll have to wear short-sleeves soon. His scrawny arms, he hopes Chanyeol will love that part of him, too. “I’ll just pack my things and be quick.”

“Luhan and Sehun won’t be home tomorrow morning,” Yoora says to disperse the thick air. She puts more greens into Jongin’s bowl, and does the same for her brother. “You should go during then.”

“Yoora,” Chanyeol starts but Jongin shakes his head.

“Thank you for caring about me hyung.” His eyes focus on Chanyeol’s scrunched up nose, a habit of his when he’s all frustrated. He leans in and pecks his cheek, and the man unlaces under him. Yoora giggles and jumps around in her seat, waving her spoon around.

“Who needs romance when you can watch it happen?” Yoora says proudly, finally glowing. Jongin’s heart swells, glad that Sehun did not break her will. “Chanyeol, you’re washing up the dishes!”

She jumps up and fixes her makeup. She wiggles into her coat and slips on her shoes, shooting them all a jaunty wave.

“The clinic doesn’t open for another half hour!” Chanyeol shouts after her. “What are you doing?”

She’s already down the street, skipping like a schoolgirl.

Jongin stacks up the plates, trying not to spill any of the sauce. Chanyeol whirls around just in time to stop him, steadying his hands. “Hyung?” Jongin squints. “I’m not going to drop any of them. I just want to help.”

Chanyeol relaxes. “Sorry. But you should take your medication and rest in the living room.” He wipes his hands down with a towel and pushes him to the other room, placing the remote in his hand and swooping down to steal a kiss. He hurries back to the kitchen hastily before Jongin can react.

“But my medication is in the kitchen!” Jongin calls out after him. He hears Chanyeol cuss under his breath. It’s endearing. _He’s nervous,_ Jongin realizes with joy.

He hears the faucet switch on and the clatter of dishes on dishes. Jongin lets himself listen to the sound of splashing water and the television buzzing. He pulls out his phone, and a stream of notifications scroll up and down. They’re all from the same people, with the unoriginal ‘are you okay?’

Jongin knows those people don’t really care, but it’s okay.

His fingers still tremble when they hover over Luhan’s voice mail. With a sharp inhale, he deletes the whole thing.

And he breathes.

Chanyeol stumbles into the living room with the small pouch that usually carries all of Jongin’s medications. His hair is all messy and his sleeves are stained with water.

“I, uh, is this the one you take first?” he asks, holding the one marked with a red sharpie.

Jongin nods, holding out his hands for them. Chanyeol holds out a water bottle for him and collapses onto the couch beside him.

“God, I’m a mess.” He covers his face, blatantly embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m not sure how I should act around you at home.”

Jongin pops it into his mouth and swallows. “What do you mean?”

Chanyeol looks like a late college student when he sits up. He rubs at his eyes cutely, and Jongin sometimes wonder how the man could be nine years older than him. Jongin wheels closer to him until their knees and his cast bumps.

“Yoora keeps teasing me for everything I do. She kicked me under the table maybe eight times every time I looked in your direction.” Chanyeol pouts, and he looks so much more different without his glasses on. “But I’m really happy. I’m overwhelmingly happy that you’re staying with me.”

Jongin laughs. It sounds so much more livelier; less fearful these days. “You make me happy, too.”

They spend the rest of the morning and most of afternoon with Chanyeol’s head in his lap and Jongin’s hand in his hair. The medication makes him a bit jumpy, but sleepy Chanyeol keeps him chained to the seat, and he doesn’t mind at all. A small thought bugs at him in the back of his head, forcing him to think about how life would be better if he didn’t have to take all those antidepressants.

He shuts that thought off for another day.

And he breathes.

♕♕♕

“Chanyeol!”

Jongin is sprawled across the floor, trying to unbutton his shirt. He’s leaning up against the wall, his injured leg propped up on a pillow with a pile of magazines stacked up beside him for reading pleasures. He hears thumping up and the stairs and the doors opening.

“What’s wrong?” Chanyeol asks quickly, his eyes searching Jongin up and down for any injuries. _More_ injures.

“Can you unbutton my shirt?” Jongin asks helplessly, his hand red from wrestling with the buttons. “I can’t do it with one hand. I want to take a bath.”

He sits down in front of him, a smile stretching across his face. “Oh God, don’t scare me like that.” With Jongin holding the other end, Chanyeol easily plucks off each button for him, exposing skin ridden with old scars and blemishes. “You’re so beautiful,” Chanyeol says breathlessly. He traces the skin from his ribcage to his chest.

Jongin tries to cover up with his shirt. “Chanyeol!” he whines. “Stop that.”

There has been few times when Jongin has in the shower without holding Sehun’s hand. Those few times end in disasters, with a bruise on the neck that people mistake for love bites or a split lip when his face smashes into the faucet.

Chanyeol takes off the cast with a gentle touch, holding him from under his arms. Jongin sinks into the tub, aware of how _naked_ he is. Embarrassment blooms in the flesh from his face to his chest, the need to cover himself up is overwhelming.

“You don’t have to cover up.” Chanyeol makes sure Jongin’s head is against the wall and that he’s comfortable.

“I know.” Jongin keeps his eyes on his hand that checks if the water is too hot or too cold. “I’m not used to this.”

He’s not. He’s not used to other people seeing him naked without touching him.

“I’ll be in the bedroom?” Chanyeol jerks a thumb to the door. “Be careful, okay? Call me if you need anything.”

Jongin nods, and the bathroom door shuts. With only the sound of water sloshing back and forth between the tub and his skin, he realizes how peaceful this place is; complete serenity. His eyes find the cabinet mirrors above the sink, and this time, there is no masking tape that labels the left cabinet as ‘LU HAN’S’, and there are no secrets in there.

♕♕♕

Yoora comes back for dinner, her face all clear and her mouth a fiery red. “Hate to break it to you Jongin,” she holds up a plastic bag that swings from her wrist, “but I can’t cook. Like, at all. I’m really bad and was all about first impressions at first. But you’re my little brother’s boyfriend, so basically my brother-in-law.”

Chanyeol chokes on his vitamin water. “Noona.”

Yoora shrugs, halfheartedly, and sets the bag down on the coffee table. “How does chicken and beer sound?” she asks, sounding eager. “As a family. We can watch TV too, I need to catch up on my shows!”

She kicks off her heels and writhes out of her jacket. The name of the chicken-place is labeled across the box, ‘Oksang Dalbit 옥상달빛’. Jongin scoots closer to her, wiggling on his butt as his leg can’t do much.

“Jongin can’t drink too much beer.” Chanyeol frowns. He sits directly across from Jongin, switching on the television. “Don’t coax him into it either, Yoora.”

She pouts. “Why not?”

Jongin laughs uneasily, rolling up his pajamas sleeves. They’re Chanyeol’s, and they’re much too big on the arms. “One of my sister was in rehab for alcohol. It doesn’t sit well with me.” He winces. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make the mood bad.”

He’s not sure if she’s still there, if she’s dead.

Eunhee, who dabs her lipstick with liquor store receipts.

Yoora makes an ‘O’ face and looks apologetic. “Soft drinks then?” she suggest, then scrambles to the fridge to pull out coca-cola. “Sodas just as fun as beer!”

Chanyeol rubs soothing circles into Jongin’s back. The show is some drama with a screaming wife and a mistress. Jongin tries to pay some mind to it, but the sticky chicken sauce that’s smear across his hand distracts him.

Yoora squeals a few times through the night, sucking off the sauce on her fingers and clapping whenever there’s a kiss scene on screen, which is often. Jongin’s face aches from laughing too much, his cheeks tight and his mouth feeling all numb. Chanyeol rolls his eyes a few times at his sister, but his face is warm from either the alcohol or from everything else.

There’s no cracks in the walls here, and it doesn’t smell like _Mary Jane_ , the kind that gets you in trouble. The kind you get to overdose. There’s no draft in the living room, and time certainly doesn’t stop here. His smiles aren’t sad in these walls, and perhaps the little red house stayed in Wonderland.

And Wonderland is no more to him.

♕♕♕

Chanyeol leans against the frame of the door, his sleeves floppy and his sweatpants too short around the ankles. He’s wearing his reading glasses, the ones with a wired frame and round. Tucked under his arm is a philosophy book, ‘Immaneul Kant’ embed in a golden ink across the cover.

“You didn’t strike me as the philosophy-kind-of-guy.” Jongin cracks a smile when Chanyeol sticks his tongue out at him. There’s sticky notes of all sorts of colors taped in the middle of pages, and dog flaps where Jongin can see them. “I thought you said you liked children’s books.”

“I like all books and all authors. I like Kim Young-ha and Sok-Yong Hwang. I also enjoy Virgina Woolf and some more English authors. I like Lewis Carroll.” Chanyeol chuckles to himself like it’s a joke. He hugs the books closer to him, and if Jongin could walk freely, he would hurry over in baby steps to wrap his arms around him. “I also like philosophy. It gets me through my worst days.”

“And what are your worst days?” Jongin rubs at his eyes. His mouth is all tingly with the minty toothpaste, and his stomach is filled. The lights in his room is dim and welcoming, and Jongin is adjusting to not sleeping in a bunk bed with woolly blankets, that one that leaves scratch marks on his thighs and back.

“I haven’t had much these past few months.” Chanyeol looks over at the clock. It sings of the witching hours. “I left them in Busan. One day, I’ll tell you about Busan and my bad days.” He tucks the books under his arms and walks over to turn off the light, wordlessly telling him to sleep.

“Chanyeol?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you quote something? From your philosophies?” Jongin hides his face into the pillow of lavenders. He feels Chanyeol set the book down on the nightstand to stroke his back with affections. “They seem interesting, but I don’t understand philosophy.”

“Hmm,” Chanyeol hums. “I think have one.”

“Tell me?”

“ _Happiness is not an ideal of reason, but of imagination._ ” He presses a kiss to his ear, forcing a giggle out of Jongin when his breath tickles his skin. “Goodnight Jongin. Be happy.”


	21. Asphodels

Jongin buttons up the dress shirt that Chanyeol gave him. It was hell doing it with one arm, but he leans onto the side of his wheelchair for support. It’s loose on the shoulders but he makes it work, the white sheerness showcases all of his body. He wraps his arms around himself, the sound of crinkling fresh new cotton crisp to his ears.

Looking in the mirror, he gazes upon himself. The bruises and cuts are healing on his face, and the band-aid is new and clean. He wiggles his toes in the foot that isn’t all cast up, and his heart feels like lead. There are socks where there should be ballet flats, and he should be preparing for the rehearsals with those dull aches of stretches.

He runs his hand over the lavenders and roses on the cast, the bumps calming to his touch.

“Have you heard about the language of flowers?” He remembers Baekhyun asking him when he was finishing up one of the blood roses. “I had to study them in art school. Fuckin’ hated it.”

Jongin had replied with a no.

“Well, good. Lavenders represent devotion.” Baekhyun had pointed to the intertwining flowers. “And silence, most definitely silence. But you know? Quiet is good, especially when your head is full of fireworks and bad people.”

“And the roses?” Jongin had asked, pointing to the smear of red and white paint on his palette. “What about roses?”

Baekhyun laughed, slapping his hand on his knees. His laugh sounds like bubbles popping, and Jongin thought the man is just a walking candy bar.

“That’s a given. _Red_ roses represent love. I think devotion, calmness, and love go hand-in-hand. Too bad the only hand mine will ever go into is a girl’s panties.” He grinned, and Jongin didn’t get the joke. He still doesn’t. “It’s only red roses, though. Other roses like pink represent gentleness. Burgundy stands for unconscious beauty, and yellow ones speaks of jealousy and betrayal.”

Jongin continues tracing each of the painted flowers onto the cast, and he makes a mental note to thank Baekhyun with some sweets. He knows Old Noona makes the best baked treats in Yeonhui-dong.

Heaving himself off the chair, he grasps for his crutches, letting the rubber part dig into his underarms. He makes a face at the unpleasant feeling, but does just as Chanyeol taught him to. Go slow, and lift yourself up as you walk. Jongin glances over at Chanyeol’s door, which is shut. Relief pours across his skin, knowing that Chanyeol is resting in his bed.

Looking down at the stairs though, brings disdain to his face. Getting down so that he’s sitting, he hugs his crutches so that it won’t make any noise screeching across the floor. Using his elbow, he steadies himself against the railings as his butt thumps against each step, his wince deepening with each _bump._

At the bottom of the stairs, he slumps against the wall and out of breath, trying to get back on his crutches.

“Jongin?”

His head shoots up so fast that he nearly gets whiplash, just to see Yoora fully-clothed in her usual clinic get-up and a cup of coffee in hand. She cocks her head curiously, squinting at his attire and crutches.

“Good morning, noona.”

“Good morning...” she trails off, pacing around him. “What are you doing? Are you running away?”

Jongin, taken aback, nearly slips on his crutches. “What? No! I was just getting my stuff at Luhan’s place. I can’t live off Chanyeol’s clothes forever, and I don’t want him to go with me. Especially with Luhan...” he gulps. The thought of Chanyeol getting hurt forms a lump in his throat.

“Ah.” Yoora nods sadly. “I’ll come with you. You weren’t thinking of hopping over there in a fractured leg, were you?”

Jongin doesn’t answer that.

“I’ll get a suitcase, too. I think I have one in the closet somewhere.”

He follows her to the car, not saying a thing. She wheels the empty suitcase behind her, looking over her shoulder a few times to see if he’s alright. He shoots back an easy grin so that she doesn’t worry. These days, Jongin can see every worry and stress tattooed onto her skin, in the forms of wrinkles and bags under her eyes.

“Buckle up!” she says cheerily. “I’m happy you’re staying with us. It makes Chanyeol happier and less antsy.”

Jongin nods, but his thoughts are all swarming over how shaky her hands are. “Are you okay, noona?”

Yoora’s lips part, her eyes dimming. “I’m alright. Don’t you worry about me.” She points her two thumbs towards her chest. There’s a rubber band on her wrist, and Jongin can see the red marks where she had whipped herself with it. “I’m a strong woman. I’m real strong.”

Jongin eyes her solemnly, reaching out to take her hand in his. It’s dry to the touch and he can finally see all the hard labor painted into her skin. He smooths his hand across her wrist. “I’m sorry about Sehun,” he spills, his voice thick. “He broke your heart. You don’t deserve that, noona. You didn’t deserve to have your heart touched in the wrong ways.”

For what seems to be the longest time in weeks, tears wells up in her eyes and she jerks back, as if someone had hit her. Jongin lets her cry, holding her with his one arm until her shoulders stop trembling and she’s rubbing at her eyes furiously.

He begs, to some God out there, that Chanyeol doesn’t see his strong sister break like this.

“He made me feel young,” she whispers, choking up. “Me, in my early thirties with nothing but a doctor’s degree and a clinic to my name, and he _chose_ to stay by my side. Sehun, he—he made me feel like I could have a man in my life that wasn’t an _abusive father_ or my little brother.”

Jongin pretends that his cheeks aren’t wet, or that their tears are mixing together on the leather seats.

“He’s a _boy_ ,” Yoora spits out, the pain in her face quickly replaced with vexation. “Not a stinkin’ man. He did _awful_ things to you, Jongin. I don’t understand, I don’t understand a single thing about it! He should be damned.”

So this is heartbreak.

_Are you satisfied, Kim Joonmyun?_

She stops wheezing and cough, wiping her face with a box of tissues that’s all crammed in the box.

“I’m sorry, noona.” Jongin shuts his eyes. The car engine hasn’t started, and the keys are still in her lap. “I’m sorry he broke your heart.” _I’m so sorry._

The ride itself is short. They pull up into the driveway and Yoora hops out first to get the suitcase and aid Jongin.

“They should be at the theatre already.” Jongin isn’t quite sure himself. “So the house should be empty.”

He works himself up the steps, the sound of the crutches clunking against the wooden steps. There are creaks and there are screeches as he steps onto the patio, where Luhan’s ash tray greets him with nine butts and heaps of ashes. Yoora lets herself take in the house, furrowing her brows at the smell of smoke.

“It always smells like this,” Jongin says quickly. “It’s not a fire, just the air.”

Pulling out his keys, he finds himself pausing. His key chain hangs with a little plastic card which has both Sehun and Luhan’s name written in permanent ink, in case he gets lost. _Like a dog._ A sense of bitterness swallows him whole, and he yanks off the card and tosses it into the ash tray.

Jamming the keys into the lock hole he pushes open the door, stabling himself on his crutch as he holds the door for Yoora. The sound of the tiny wheels bumping against the carpet is softened when they shut the door.

“Oh my.” Yoora looks around, seemingly uneasy. She scrunches up her face at the table of liquor bottles, most empty except for honey-comb shaped glass of _Imperial._ She holds the suitcase close to her side, the two of them taking in the smell of cheap cologne. The window is opened in the living room, naked without any curtains.

“ _You have to air yourself out,_ ” he remembers Luhan muttering as he tugs on his shirt, exhibiting every bone and blister on his skin. “ _So no fools can smell the dope."_

Jongin hobbles over and slams the window shut.

“Jongin!” Yoora jumps, taken back. “You’ll break the glass. Come on, where’s your bedroom? Let's get out of here soon, it’s giving me a headache with all the smoke.” She clutches her head for show, but the discontentment is marked into her face.

“Can you pack my stuff from the closet down here? I want to be alone for awhile in my room.” _Their room,_ he thinks, _all three of them._ Yoora, still dubious, stands her ground. “I have some shoes and jackets in the closet. You can tell which one is mine, they’re on the left.” _And Sehun’s are all on the right._

“Okay,” Yoora agrees, though reluctant. She helps him up the stairs, keeping an eye on him as she goes down. “The clothes on the left? Those are yours, right?”

Jongin nods. He kicks the suitcase into the hallway with his good foot, hopping over like a limp bunny. He _is_ a limp bunny. Utilizing his elbow, he swings the door open, holding his breath.

He’s not sure what he was expecting.

Luhan’s bed is chaotic, with magazines strewn across the pillow and a stain of whatever liquor is left is evident on the sheets. It reeks of sex, and Jongin can’t help but smile—albeit an awful one—at the sight. _You broke your own rules, hyung. Your own Goddamn rules._

It tugs at his heart, those late nights where he used to curl up against Luhan, the smell of sweat rubbing off on both of them with Jongin intrigued in all the magazines of pretty boys and girls. He’d be a liar, if he says he doesn’t remember how Luhan’s hand cups his face, stroking his ear and saying, _mine, mine, mine._

Part of him misses that bliss. The other half wants to grow up.

Turning away, he looks up at the bunk bed tied to Sehun and Jongin’s names. The teddy bear is slacked against the pillows that has lost its fluff years ago, and the woolly blanket is stretched across the mattress. It has been untouched for awhile now, and he thinks he can see the plastic stars taped on the walls.

The photographs, oh God, the photographs. Jongin sinks down on his bed, lowering his head so he doesn’t hit the wood. Taped on the wall with measly duct tape, he can trace their smiles of fourteen, sixteen, seventeen and twenty. On Jongin’s twentieth birthday, where they celebrated in Hongdae. Sehun’s eyes of moon crescents when he smiles, full teeth and clear braces.

_Is that really you, Oh Sehun? Dead Sehun, you died in the storage room._

He never existed.

His hand reaches up for that one photograph, taken a month after Luhan took them in. His arms were slung across the two of them, back when Luhan was still a head taller than the two of them. Back when Luhan didn’t look like he aged forty years, and their shirts were tucked in and their hands were clutching onto their ballet flats like trophies.

Jongin tucks it into his breast pocket, right over his heart. He takes that one photo, because in that moment, they were innocent and so were their smiles.

Heaving himself off the bed and minding his head, he grabs the teddy bear and sits it on Sehun’s bed. _You’ll need it more than I do,_ he thinks sadly. _For your nightmares. Dead Sehun, you died in the storage room. Did you exist?_

The stuffed animal scowls back at him, and Jongin shuts his eyes for one last minute. One, two, three, four, five, six...

He breathes.

Jongin trudges over to the drawers, the sound of his crutches still clinking against the floor and waking up the room. He piles his clothes into the suitcase, jamming it packed to make room. All of his sweaters and too-big t-shirts all wedged together. His holey jeans and sweatpants embed with all the colleges he hasn’t heard of. His striped pajamas and his socks, and his favorite sweater because it hides his bad marks.

His hand is struggling to squeeze in all of his clothes into the suitcase. _This is it._ He leaves rooms for his ballet shoes and dance belts, and don’t forget the shirts that are meant for sweating and getting dirty in. Looking back on the drawers, it’s mostly empty, except for the shirts that he grew out of his teenage years and the jeans that end too short around the ankles. Folding those up until there’s no crease in the fabric, he places it in Luhan’s drawer, because he knows the older man will fit comfortably in them.

_Why do you still care?_

_I don’t know._

Staggering up to brace himself against his crutch, he heads to his shelf where all his books and personal belongings sit in between more photographs. Fake smiles. Jongin stuffs his backpack with the books his eldest sister Jungah left him before she left him in bustling Seoul.

“Why are you making a mess?”

Jongin nearly drops ‘ _Songs of the Kisaeng’_ on his foot, but catches it by the corner of the cover. Luhan is staring at him with rosy eyes, all glossy and fish-like. Tilting his head so that the sun catches a bit of his skin through the shade, Jongin can see pasty white skin and the places where his skin is peeling back from dryness.

 _Luhan?_ No, this can’t be him. No, no, it’s not. His Luhan is King. His Luhan walks the streets like royalty with cigarettes as knights. His Luhan is beautiful—this Luhan barely looks like he’s breathing.

_Did you die too? In that storage room?_

_(Were you dead all along?)_

He leans against the door frame, and past his shoulders Jongin can see the hallway bathroom’s door eerily swinging back and forth, as if the hinges were too loose to function. His collarbone is too sharp for pleasure and his mouth has lost all color, in place rests a swollen pale pink with his lip scar prominent.

“Are you going to sleep?” Luhan asks, his voice bare and dull. He stumbles a bit as he advances, not noticing how Jongin recoils and sinks deeper into the corner of the room. Luhan pats the edge of Jongin’s bed, his hand all bandaged up and under his nails lies grim and crusted blood.

Indeed, this _is_ his Luhan.

Luhan throws his head back, curling his lower lip into his mouth. A scatter of love bites paints itself a constellation across the transparent skin. The constellations reminds him of the ones in Sehun’s hair, of ceiling paint chips and deceit.

“Why aren’t you at the theatre?” Jongin asks, his words carefully picked and slow. His heart beats erratically, and he swears to God everyone in Yeonhui-dong can hear it right now. Luhan squints, like it hurts to even look at him. Luhan throws his hands into his lap, exposing scratch marks welting up from his skin.

“What do you mean?” Luhan asks, his voice all breathy. “You left with Sehun this morning. I said I’d catch up.”

The thirty-year-old man rubs at his eyes tiredly. Jongin’s throat constricts, thinking about how Luhan is thirty now. The man hasn’t told neither Jongin or Sehun his birthday, but they knew it was some time in April.

Jongin tightens his hold on his crutch. “How much did you drink?” he asks, his voice low. “Were you smoking it again?”

He knows Luhan blows his joints completely naked in the bathtub, so that the scent won’t stick around. So that Joonmyun won’t scream at him for it. So that he doesn’t embarrass the Seoul Theatre of Ballet and destroy their already tarnished reputation.

He’s a man of burdens, a man of sins.

“You were waking up with Sehun this morning,” Luhan continues, each word more rushed than the other. “You both ate breakfast together and _laughed_ and did your stretches. You both went off to the ‘Manufact’ and brought me back an Americano this morning, and I didn’t drink it. You were smiling and you still called me hyung.”

Jongin inhales sharply. “Stop it.”

“And you still loved me.” Luhan shoots up, hitting the back of his neck with a violent _thump_ but he doesn’t react. “You _love_ me, right? You love me right now? You’re coming back and you’re sleeping in your own bed tonight. You’re staying.”

_You’re staying._

“Luhan, I can smell the liquor on you.” Jongin turns his head away, trying to remind himself to breathe. To relax. To not break down and not die right there.

Luhan’s shoulders have shrunken, the man thin like paper. His eyes softens when he looks up at Jongin. “You’re wearing a dress shirt.” He straightens up with much trouble. “I...you look...different. You look different. You’re not—you’re _not Jongin._ ” His laugh is brittle, all choked up.

“I’m Jongin.” He looks down at his cast, at the entangled roses and lavenders. _Chanyeol and me._ “I’m Jongin and that’s all there is to it.”

Luhan flinches. “Jongin doesn’t wear dress shirts,” he rasps. “Jongin wears sweaters all year round and likes pastel colors.”

He has those packed in his suitcase. “I’m Jongin,” the younger one repeats, though more winded. “I’m still Jongin who does ballet.”

Luhan shakes his head frantically, burying his face into his trembling palms. His eyes are a mess, and Jongin can see every one of his mistakes burned into his skin. All his blemishes and poor skin from smoking too much. From living too much.

“Give me back my Jongin.” Luhan’s head is still lulling back and forth, his hands wringing together. He backs up, his heel hitting the suitcase and Jongin winces. Luhan stumbles, looking down at the suitcase. “Give me back him. _Give me back Jongin, give me him back now!”_ He’s screaming, his face a twist of fear, like Lucifer when he fell from God’s love.

The two of them hear Yoora’s heels clacking up the stairs, her voice thin and panicky. “Jongin! What’s going on?”

Luhan narrows his eyes and is conscious for a split second, throwing himself against the door and locking it shut. He slouches against the door, his shoulders rigid and his hair covering his eyes. Yoora pounds against the door, her words more shrill than the prior.

“I’m alright, noona,” Jongin calls out, keeping his voice leveled, convincing them all that he’s okay. “Don’t call Chanyeol. I’m just talking.”

Luhan laughs against the door, shaking like it’s cold. His hands are splattered red from the tight pressure, and he’s kicking his feet across the floor in a silent sob.

“You look so mature.” Luhan whispers it, and Jongin feels as if the air is too thick to breathe in. “You’re not the Jongin I raised. I raised you! I raised you and you just—you _just leave like that?”_ Luhan looks up at him through his shaggy hair, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

Jongin lets his crutches collapse by his feet, supporting himself against the furnace. Luhan is still thrashing around on the floor, through his arms are more so limp and his cheeks are wet and battered.

“Stop it, hyung.” Luhan stiffens at the last word. Jongin’s breathing is ragged, his knee brushing up against the hanging drawer and the furnace burns under his thighs. It’s spring now, and he’s not sure why the heat is still running. “Stop acting like this!”

“Like what?” Luhan grips on the head of the bed to stagger to his feet. His hair is sticking up from grasping at the roots of his hair, and his mouth is parted and slicked with spit. “Tell me, Jongin. Tell me why you killed  _m_ _y_ Jongin, you _took him away from me._ You took my Jongin away!”

“Stop acting like you care!”

The furnace rusts and stops for a moment, and starts back up again.

“It’s driving me insane!” Jongin raises his voice to match the sharpness of Luhan’s. He brings his hand up carelessly and slams it against where his heart rests. “I’m not one of your children book’s protagonist, you didn’t write me. You didn’t write a single damn page of me and you have no right to draft out my life chapters like that. You can’t do that to me hyung, it has been six years, _just let me go._ You can’t do that to me.” His voice breaks at the last few bits, but no one mentions a thing.

In earlier months, and in an earlier life, things would have been different. Jongin would warm up against Luhan in the sleepiest hours of dawn, where Luhan’s fingers would be looped into his jeans and Jongin’s hands would tap to the tempo of Sehun’s piano songs, his _Kozeluch_ or his _Lebrun._ They would be skipping out on lunch together and hide in the dressing rooms when everyone is away, bickering and watching old videos of the former ballets.

“Just...” Jongin’s tired. “Let me go now. I don’t want to live in your world anymore.”

They’re both tired.

Luhan scrambles to his feet, slipping painfully and falls to his knees again in front of Jongin. The younger one jerks back. Luhan never gets on his knees for anyone, except for Joonmyun. His frail hands are grasping at the hem of his shirt, knotting it up with his eyes disturbingly fervent.

Yoora is still shouting for Jongin, sounding much more weaker as she loses her voice.

“D-don’t say that,” Luhan plead, all disoriented. “I’ll be good to you. Oh my God, I’ll be good to you. I’ll be better than Chanyeol, I can love you how you want me to love you. I-I’ll—I’ll do what you want. We can go back, right? We can go back to how things were, and I’ll love you how Chanyeol loves you, _no, no,_ I’ll love you even more than he ever will. Just don’t leave me here. _Don’t fucking leave me in this place._ ” He drops his hand from Jongin’s shirt and holds his head with an iron grip, rocking back and forth like a baby.

Luhan, thirty-years-old.

Luhan, the one who hasn’t grown up.

“Did you know Sehun was in love with you?” Jongin asks calmly. His chest hurts and his leg is worn out from not being on his crutches. “We are, we _were_ a family. You were there for our junior high and high school graduations. You taught us ballet when we were home and pushed out all the tables and couches in the living room to do so. But how could you? How could you not tell me that you and Sehun had _a thing_? He broke my heart, but you did much worse.” Jongin spits out his words as it overwhelmed in his mouth, and Luhan jerks like every sentence hurled swords at his back.

“It was just simple adoration,” Luhan whispers, though more to himself than Jongin. He’s still swinging and forth in a fragile position. “Sehun doesn’t mean it. Sehun didn’t mean it at all. Not at all, not at all, not at all—”

“Let me go now,” Jongin begs. “Stop it. Just stop everything here and let me go.”

Luhan shakes his head hastily, his lips turning to a snarl. “No, no, you’re staying. You have to stay, _you have to._ You can’t leave me alone here, I’ll die, I’ll die!” he pushes himself off the ground and grips both of Jongin’s side too tightly. Jongin writhes around but the older man buries his face into his chest, choking up. “Let me try again. Let me have a do-over. Chanyeol can’t love you, he can’t. I can, I can love you in all the right ways and I’ll be good for you. I’ll stop smoking, I’ll stop drinking so much and I’ll stop fooling around. _Just don’t let me die here._ ”

Jongin pushes him off, twisting his shoulders around. “Don’t be like this!” Jongin shouts. “Hyung, get a grip of yourself! You and I were never in love, don’t you get it? Don’t you get it hyung? It was platonic. It was  _family,_ so don’t go tainting family love and mistaking it for your sickening desires. We weren’t in love. I loved you, but not like that. Not like that!”

Jongin learns that things like broken vases and broken men are meant to stay unfixed.

Luhan runs his hands through his hair roughly, squeezing his eyes shut. “He did this, he did this. Chanyeol did this, he ruined you! You were so perfect and I _made_ you so perfect and you broke it. He broke it.” He rubs his hands together anxiously, avoiding eye contact with Jongin. He hasn’t seen the man cry often, but this is one of the few times, and perhaps the last. “I-I can fix. I can fix it. Stay, Jongin, don’t leave Sehun and me. We’ll— _I’ll_ break without you. Stay, I’ll make you perfect again.”

 _Perfect again._ Jongin wonders what ‘perfect’ really means. Whether it means his Todd Syndrome as a leash around his neck, or go back to kissing strangers second handedly; the ones who leave their lipstick or gum to Luhan. If it means sleeping in an empty bed and flipping through magazines and admiring bodies again, Jongin doesn’t want to be perfect then.

“I don’t want to be the subject of your disgusting dreams.” His heart mends itself. “I won’t be your doll.”

Luhan stops moving.

“I’m _happy_ with Chanyeol.” Jongin gets off the furnace, his skin flushed red from the heat. He snatches his crutches off the floor and supports himself off on it. Kicking the suitcase up with his foot picking up the handle, he sits the suitcase by his side. “I’m not a child in his eyes.”

Luhan’s face lost all of its color, his mouth moving but no words comes out.

Jongin walks slowly towards the bathroom, and the weight of the world crumbles on his shoulders.

The bathroom is still messy, with rolled up toothpaste sitting on the edge of the sink, and their toothbrush scattered across the counter with the mouthwash bottle uncapped. He never did get used to the faint lights, even if six years left a lot of time for him. Jongin stares at the cabinet, the mirror dirty and across it says ‘LU HAN’S’ on a masking tape.

His eyes are dry. Perhaps he won’t cry anymore these days. Hopefully, there will only be happy tears.

He opens it.

There’s no drugs, no empty packs of Marlboro’s or that secret lighter of his. There’s a manila folder folded up, tucked on the side. In messy Korean, it writes ‘Jongin’s medical papers’. Beside it is a framed photo of him, Yixing, and Joonmyun. The edges are faded and Joonmyun looked noticeably younger in the picture, his smile wide and his arms thrown across Yixing and Luhan’s, who were holding up their high school diplomas.

Further into the cabinet, Jongin comes closer to see a pressed flower, with a sticky note that says ‘Zhang Yixing 张艺兴’ under it.

Jongin lets himself laugh quietly for a few minutes. Clutching the pressed flower against his chest, he thinks about all the years they’ve spent wondering what has been in the cabinet. _Oh Sehun,_ he thinks bitterly, _you have fooled us all._ There are no filthy secrets hyung hid, just his thoughts.

There’s nothing in the bathroom that really belonged to him, so he hobbles out of the room, only to see that Luhan hasn’t budged from his spot. He stops in his tracks to admire the man, in his baggy clothes and his shoulders that had carried the theatre on them. Despite his loose shirt, Jongin can still see the outline of his spine that runs down the middle of his back. It’s a haunting sight.

Tucking the pressed flowers under his injured arm, he hooks the suitcase handle with his crutch and drags himself along until he stops in front of Luhan. His face is shadowed and his hands are motionless in his lap.

Crouching down, Jongin places the dried flowers into his hands. Luhan says nothing at first, turning his head so that his eyes meets Jongin for the last time. _No,_ Jongin thinks. No, they will meet again. _I’ll see him again at the theatre, and we’ll start over. We’ll start over._

_We have to._

_We’re family._

“What flowers are those?” Jongin asks, keeping quiet as if anything louder will shatter them both. Once he enters the hallway and leave the little red house, everything will break. He knows that, they both know that.

“Asphodels,” Luhan says hollowly. “我的遗憾会陪你一生.”

Jongin will learn Mandarin one day, and that will be the day he replies to Luhan.

He leaves Luhan behind, slumped against the bed as he cradles the framed flowers, his eyes glued shut as his mouth forms silent sobs.

_Let’s start our own stories, Luhan._

His hand reaches out for the door, but stops.

“Why did you do that?” he finds himself asking without thinking. “Why did you let Sehun do that? Why did you take the blame?”

When he thinks Luhan isn’t going to answer, he unlocks the door.

“Because we are family.” The glass breaks. “And I don’t leave family.”

The furnace shuts off, and that’s the last time.


	22. Roses At Rock Bottom

Jongin is out of his arm cast, though it is still bandaged up.

He’s seated on the edge of his bed, his shirt plain and his pants riding up. His desk is cluttered with everything of his; phone chargers, books, and belts. His room feels like _home_ now, especially on those nights where Chanyeol curls up against him after returning from the clinic.

Usually, he goes off to the clinic with Chanyeol and Yoora, offering smiles to the elderlies who come in for check-ups on their backs or hips. The younger generations, namely the ones who go to Yonsei University, stop by the glass and whisper about a ‘homosexual’ couple in little Yeonhui.

Jongin doesn’t mind though, because he likes the way Chanyeol laughs and lean against the counter. He notes the way he smiles, especially when children come in with their mothers or fathers and his face lights up, as if he sees them as his own. His heart clenches whenever he sees him stroke the top of children’s hair and offer them stickers after a shot.

The rumors are dying down, and everything is back in its usual rhythm.

But today, he’s alone, tapping his fingers impatiently to the clock ticking, waiting for Joonmyun and Sojin to stop by. He got a call last night in the afternoon, Joonmyun’s drunkenness sounded through the speakers and giggling like a school girl.

“We are stopping by for business,” he had told him, the sound of some liquid sloshing around in a cup. “Real business, because I’m like, the director.”

Jongin had nodded, even if the man couldn’t see.

“I know you’re nodding,” Joonmyun had deadpanned. “Goodbye, I will see you by fortnight. Sike! I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. I’m a real jester, God damn it.”

Yoora gave him a music player that Chanyeol fixed up for him, adding all his favorite songs from past ballets. Tchaikovsky is playing now, with his infamous piece from _Swan Lake._

Jongin throws himself onto the mattress, mindful of the arm. “Careful,” Chanyeol warned him when he was being careless. “You’ll reopen your stitches.”

 _Chanyeol,_ he thinks with giddiness. Chanyeol and the beauty mark on his nose, with his lips all plump and dry until Yoora forces him to smear lip balm on. Jongin counts on all ten of his fingers, his reasons for Chanyeol. One includes how Chanyeol covers his face with his large hands when Yoora brings up baby photos of him, ones where his cheeks were chubby and his ears were the only things you could see. Two, involves his habit of burying his face into Jongin’s neck and blowing on it, and sleeping in Jongin’s room even when his is across the room.

The third is of his beauty, his gentle touch when it comes to Jongin.

Jongin peers at the unopened box gifted from Sojin. A ‘housewarming gift’ she had told him when she handed it at him on her visit. It’s a Polaroid camera to capture his memories and his new life.

He rolls over and flips to art gallery magazines, boredom slipping out of his thoughts when he traces over the oil paintings and ink splatters. Jongin remembers Baekhyun offering art classes at his studio in Hongdae, to get his mind off things until he can get back into dancing.

Perhaps he’ll ask Chanyeol to join him.

The sound of car exhaust has his ears perking up, and he strains his upper body to throw back the curtains. It’s Joonmyun’s car alright, the trademark sleek _noir_ of his Mercedes, and his poor parking skills. Pushing his magazines into the basket under his bed, he grabs his crutches and hurries down the stairs, now with ease with all his practice.

He’s barely at the door when the doorbell rings multiple times.

“I’m coming!” Jongin shouts, twisting it unlock to reveal Joonmyun clutching onto a sippy cup. He grins manically, his hair all teased up and his pajama shirt tucked into his navy blue slacks. Sojin is by his side, warily staring at the back of his neck with beady eyes and her lips thinned.

“Hello baby!” Joonmyun greets, throwing his hands up for a hug. Jongin doesn’t take it, so he lets himself in, kicking off his shoes and shaking up his cup. Sojin slumps in relief when she catches sight of Jongin, wrapping her arms around his neck and sighing.

“Noona,” Jongin says, happiness thick in his mouth. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

He can feel her nodding. Her hair is much shorter now, almost a wavy bob. Sojin seems more mature and older now, her dark circles erased with concealer and her mouth vibrant with the color rose. She nods, wiping away a stray tear.

“Don’t cry,” he says hoarsely. “I’m all good.”

“I...I know.” Sojin clutches a gift bag against her chest and pushes it into his hands. “It’s for Yoora-ssi and Chanyeol-ssi. My gift to them.” Jongin nods and puts it in the middle of the side table and welcomes her in.

“Joonmyun-ssi, you can sit down in the living room—”

“ _Oh!_ A vase!”

Jongin sighs, and Sojin follows him into the room where Joonmyun is caressing a vase painted by Baekhyun. Sojin pinches the bridge of her nose and sits down across from him, patting his knee with a firm look to her eye. Joonmyun pouts and puts the vase back in place on the table, holding his sippy cup against his stomach protectively.

“Would you two like anything to drink?” Jongin asks, sitting in the armchair beside Sojin. Joonmyun looks half-dressed again, half in pajamas and the rest in office attire. Sojin shakes her head and mouths ‘ _thank you’._

“No need.” Jonmyun holds his sippy cup up like a toast, sticking out one pinky finger. “I’m being healthy these days, don’t mind me, so I’m cutting back on the alcohol. I’m getting old, so I made this cilantro-infused vodka.” He unscrews the cup and holds up a parsley before taking it in with his tongue.

“That’s still alcohol sir,” Jongin points out faintly.

Joonmyun shakes his head. “Nonsense. This is a herbal tea.” He fishes out another parsley with his fingers and wiggles it. “See?”

Sojin groans. “Don’t mind him, Jongin-ah.”

“Right, we’re here for your position and theatre stuff.” Joonmyun makes wet sloppy sounds as he drinks down his liquor for the day. It’s mid-afternoon. “How are you healing? Quickly?”

Jongin nods stiffly. He’s still thrown off by the man, who is strewn across the couch with a baby’s drinking cup between his lips. “I’m living with two trained doctors, they’re caring for me well.” All the ice packs and painkillers Chanyeol brings timely and paired up with sweet kisses.

Joonmyun claps. “And your _Todd?"_ he inquires, grinning all knowingly.

Sojin shoots him a warning look but Jongin just shakes his head. “I haven’t had a real episode for weeks. Just the usual headaches but nothing.”

Joonmyun nods approvingly. “The story is going along nicely, I like. I like a lot.”

They’re not sure what he’s talking about, but it’s Joonmyun so they both dismiss it.

“You know,” Joonmyun continues, squishing his cheek up against the throw pillows. “Your happy ending is built upon the sacrifices of others.” His eyes dazzle as he says this, laughter creeping up in his voice. “Oh, how I _love_ it. Oh well, what can you do? You just gotta take it.”

Jongin shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not sure what you mean, hyung.”

“It’s just our story.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “You’ll recover soon and be back in the theatre, soon. Your role as soloist is still yours. You’ll be paid still on your away time from the ballet season. Start up again in the late spring, or early summer.”

“Why did you assign me as a soloist?”

Joonmyun pauses at this, tapping his sticky finger on his chin. “I was supposed to.” He taps his head. “They told me to.”

Sojin is unamused. “I’ll be helping you get back into your place when you recover.” She leans over and pats his cast. “This is beautiful, by the way. Who painted it?”

“Chanyeol’s friend.” Jongin’s suddenly shy. His cast has been the only color to him these days, especially with his shirts are just variation of grays and off-whites. It’s much too warm for sweaters now. “His name is Byun Baekhyun.”

“Well, it’s lovely.” Sojin leans back. “Don’t worry, Jonginnie. We’re taking care of everything. It’ll all go back to normal once you get back and dance again.”

Jongin disagrees, because it won’t be the same. There won’t be the traditional five minute to Hongdae’s train station every sunless morning, and no more laughter with Sehun or Soojung and Minseok, because they’re his friends. And Luhan...

It won’t be the same.

“Thank you,” he says anyways, keeping his voice light. “I’ll do my best to recover quickly. I’ll come back a better person and dancer.”

It’s okay if things won’t be the original way. He’ll take the train with Chanyeol’s hand engulfing his, not taking the care because Seoul’s morning traffic makes both their eyes ache. He’ll find laughter somewhere else, and learn to match it up with someone new. Someone who will care for him truly.

He will still dance.

Joonmyun is tracing his fingers across the embroidery on the pillows, completely amused by it. He’s kicking up his feet and swinging it around in the air. Kim Joonmyun, the director of the notorious Seoul Theatre of Ballet.

“Do you think I can come back and dance the way I did before?” he asks to particularly no one. Perhaps to God. He doesn’t answer, and he never really did.

_God is slow._

Sojin and Joonmyun stops what they’re doing, the man halting his sloshing of his vodka and Sojin’s face goes blank.

“No.”

Well, that’s abrupt.

Joonmyun sits up, scooting closer until his butt is barely on the seat. “This time, you’ll dance knowing what heartbreak is.” His smile is almost too cruel. “But you also will know what love is. I think it’ll show in your dance now, instead of letting yourself get strung up by other pointless emotions.”

Sojin nods. “For the first time, I agree with Joonmyun.” The director ignores this. “Well, we should be on our way. Joonmyun has a meeting with our sponsors and I have to go teach a class.” Her face is younger now, no longer aged by her past self, the one that was a principal dancer and got her pointe shoes stolen by a director.

She kisses the top of his head and Joonmyun hops off the couch, swinging his sippy cup around happily and slipping on his shoes by the door. “ _Goodbye Jongin!"_ he says in a sing-song voice. “Come back a healthy dancer, my lil’ music box.”

Sojin waves at him, flashing a full smile before shutting the door behind her.

Jongin stays in the living room for the rest of the afternoon, holding one of Chanyeol’s books up so he can read it laying down. He’s on page 400 something when he hears rustling at the door, the sound of Yoora and Chanyeol coming home for dinner.

“Jongin?” Chanyeol calls out, removing his shoes and his bag. “Where are you?”

“In here!” he replies back, setting the book down. His face hurts from smiling too widely when Chanyeol enters the living room, arms out to encase Jongin against his chest. “You’re crushing me,” he whines when Chanyeol brings the two of them down onto the couch, careful not to lay any weight on his arm and leg.

Chanyeol showers him in quick kisses down the side of his face, hands cupping his cheeks and his breath all minty. “I had no one to talk to at the clinic,” he says. “Yoora wouldn’t talk to me. She was too busy on the computer with paperwork.”

Jongin taps the tip of Chanyeol’s nose. “Sorry, Joonmyun and Sojin came over.” Chanyeol nods, getting off of him to let him sit up. He intertwines his hand through his, like roses to lavenders. “Do you know if you’re going to go back there?”

Chanyeol ponders at that. “I will,” he says. “I will for now.”

“Won’t they still hurt you?” Jongin asks worriedly.

He shakes his head. “I have you, I have Yoora. There’s not much they can take away from me.” He takes their hand into his lap. “I hope you’ll stay by my side.”

“I will,” Jongin says, beaming. “Oh! Sojin brought a gift for you and Yoora-noona. It’s on the table.”

“I got it!” Yoora exclaims, hurrying over to the table. She peeks at it after untying the ribbon. “Oh! It’s a bottle of wine and chocolate. Lots of chocolate, actually, oh my.”

Jongin rests his head on Chanyeol’s shoulder. It’s Chanyeol’s turn to cook tonight, and it’s for the best. His wrist is all better now, though a bit scarred. He unfolds the wheelchair and helps Jongin into it, wheeling into the kitchen so they could stay together.

His heart flutters with fireflies, and he hasn’t ever been more happy.

“What’s for dinner?” Jongin tries to piece together the food in the grocery bag.

" _Dak galbi,"_ replies Chanyeol. He pulls out a packet of noodles and makes crinkle sounds when he squeezes it. Jongin scoots closer on his chair so that he by Chanyeol’s side as he washes his hand. Jongin reaches up, lifting himself off the seat by a centimeter to unbutton Chanyeol’s sleeves and fold it back.

“So it doesn’t get wet,” informs Jongin. “It would be a pain to wash out your shirt if you got anything on your sleeves.”

“I have my heart on my sleeve,” jokes Chanyeol. He bends down to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Jongin.”

Yoora is in the living room, relaxing herself after a long day of tending to sick patients and children. They can hear her giggles resonating through the house with her television shows.

“Can I help?” Jongin asks eagerly. “I want to help.”

Chanyeol eyes his bandaged arm with doubt, but gives in. “Take it easy, okay? Can you wash the cabbage then? I’ll go start on the noodles if you do.”

Jongin takes the bowl of cabbage with enthusiasm. Sitting up straighter, he flicks on the sink and lets the water drown the vegetables out. Chanyeol’s back is facing him, his broad shoulders putting in work as he tries his best to switch on the stove.

“It’s an old house,” he mutters. “I’m thinking about replacing the whole thing for Yoora, the whole twist and turning for a few minutes gets tiring.”

“For Yoora?”

Chanyeol nods sheepishly. “I’m thinking of getting my own place when I stabilize myself and my life, so Yoora can throw her usual girls’ nights without getting mad at me for watching football in the living room. There’s a lot of houses in Yeonhui on sale now, especially since they’re all moving to inner Seoul. Apartments are cheaper than houses, I guess.”

“You’re going to stay in Yeonhui?” Jongin asks, joy overwhelming him.

Chanyeol nods, stepping back from the stove when the spark of electric blue fire appears. “Yeonhui is home to me now. You’re home to me now.” He seems shy for a moment, tangling his own hands together in front of him. “I was going to ask if you would join me when that time comes. I’ve been meaning to ask for a long time.”

Jongin’s mouth hangs for a moment. _Home with Chanyeol._

“I think I’ll like that.” He lets the water run across his hands. “I want to live like that. With you, I mean.”

The rest of the hour is spent cooking, with the atmosphere fresh and loving.

♕♕♕

“Are we going somewhere?” Jongin is wide-eyed when Yoora goes through his closet. Chanyeol hasn’t been home all day, and Yoora had insisted he stay in his room playing cards with her. For four hours. She hums to some old 90’s song and pulls out a baby blue sweater.

“Ah hah! This will be so pretty with a collared shirt.” Yoora squeals, tossing it in his direction. “Now, for slacks! Oh, these black pants will do nicely. Jongin, why are your dance leggings mashed up with all your jeans? So disorganized, I am disappointed.”

“Noona, what are you doing?”

“I’m taking you somewhere.” She winks. Here, go put these on. I’ll be outside waiting. Do as I say!” she clasps her hands together and bounces out of the room.

“I...” he falters when the door closes. Not wanting to see an angry Yoora, he wrestles out of his t-shirt he borrowed from Chanyeol and slips off his cast. It’s not hard anymore, and these past few weeks has been like a second skin. Hastily buttoning up his shirt and throwing the sweater over his head, he barely has time to zipper up his pants when Yoora barges in. “ _Noona—!”_

“Okay, good. I like it.” Yoora rushes towards him with a comb and hairspray, raking it through his hair mercilessly. Jongin yelps out of shock and subtle _ouch._ “Pain is beauty, Jongin, pain is beauty! You’re so good looking, my brother has excellent taste.”

She tosses the comb and bottle behind her and jerks on the handles, pulling him down the stairs. Chanyeol spent all last Sunday installing a temporary ‘ _S_ _tairclimber’_ for Jongin on the side. Yoora is so giddy as she helps him down the stairs, sometimes stopping to take a quick look at him only to squeal again.

“Where are you taking me?” Jongin asks anxiously.

She keeps her mouth shut as they pull up at the backdoor to the yard behind. The shades are down and she’s jumping up and down. “You can go on from here.” She tugs on his ears. “Now, I’m going to hang out the old ladies of Yeonhui for our sandwiches and awful tea. I really hate tea, but they’re such nice old women. Bye!”

Yoora waves and skips down the hallway, disappearing in just her pajamas and flip-flops.

It’s not like Yeonhui-dong is a stranger to that.

Jongin takes in his surroundings. Nothing seem suspicious. Reaching out for the door handle, his eyes flutter shut out of fear. Excited Yoora always scares him, even if that’s her usual. Blindly wheeling himself into the yard, he waits for something. Perhaps an explosion or Yoora thrashing her arms around in the yard as a prank.

“Open your eyes, it’s nothing scary.”

_Chanyeol?_

He sees only red when he opens his eyes.

Roses in bundles scattered across the yard, tied up neatly with white and bubblegum pink ribbons. There are rose petals strewn all over the place, and even the almost-dead tree in the corner of the yard has red and white ribbons strung across it, with hanging roses with the stems all clipped of its thorns.

A rose garden.

Chanyeol rises up from the bench, the yellowish wood painted to an angel white. His shirt is a simple black button down, his hair teased up like a classy man. His glasses are gone and in his hand nestles a bouquet of lavenders and roses of all sorts.

His smile is cautious but gentle as he takes slow steps towards Jongin.

“You...” Jongin starts, but his words all desert him when Chanyeol crouches down to cover his lap with the bundle of flowers. “Chanyeol, you--I don’t—”

“To us,” Chanyeol says instead. Maybe he’s saying it for them two, or for the universe. “Lavenders and roses, to us. For us, for fighting against the universe. You and me against the world, remember? You said that.”

Jongin brings his trembling hands to his face. _I won’t cry, not like this,_ he tells himself, _I can’t cry. I won’t...I won’t...I can’t._

His eyes are blurry.

“I promised you a date a while ago.” Chanyeol’s eyes wavers, but never leaves Jongin’s face. He’s still on the ground, his hands rubbing hearts into Jongin’s thighs. “I promised I’d take you on a date like those rom-coms you watch.”

Jongin wipes furiously at his eyes, trying not to get his flowers wet.

“And I know—fuck, _I know_ that I’m so much older, that I’m nine years ahead of you but the truth is,” his voice is raspy, “you and I are at the same place. We’re rock bottom but that’s not so bad. I had so much I planned to say, I practiced on Baekhyun and he called me silly and a lovesick fool and _I believe him._ I am a lovesick fool and I’ve lost all my words and I’ve practiced so hard.”

Jongin is lost in a world of red and purple.

“I can’t give you the love that you get from romantic comedies. It’ll be awhile before we can really walk the streets without being scared,” he swallows and hides his face into Jongin’s knees, gripping onto the sides of the wheelchair with so much tension that his veins show. “But I want to give you my all. You made me so _happy_ when all I had was my sister and my job and you made me love flowers.”

Jongin finally finds the words in him to complete them both. “I don’t want the love in the movies,” he says with a sense of finality. “I like what we have. We’re not movie couples nor will we be literary characters.”

Jongin pushes aside the flower to give room for Chanyeol to lay his face in his lap, letting himself breathe and let go.

“We’re not poetry,” he continues, trying not to keep his voice from going ragged. “But that’s fine, because we can be at rock bottom together because the stars are pretty from here. It’s _okay,_ because even if we’re alone I can still be here with you and we’ll grow flowers at rock bottom and sleep under the constellations.”

Chanyeol’s shoulders are violently shaking and Jongin loses his hand in his hair, even if it messed it up a bit.

“Because with you, it’s not really rock bottom, is it?”

Chanyeol lifts his head. “It’s not, not with you.” He reaches up to run his thumb over the bottom of Jongin’s lip. He wipes away at his eyes and straightens up. Jongin hugs the flower close to his chest, in awe of the whole garden when Chanyeol wheels him to the center.

The bench is streaked with white paint and gives off a homey feeling. Chanyeol holds his hand when Jongin turns to sit on the bench instead, pushing the wheelchair aside. They’re all bleary-eyed but their heads are good. Jongin picks up a stray rose petal and runs his finger across the velvety nature, trying not to rip it with his fingernails.

“I hope this isn’t a bad date,” Chanyeol says shyly. He runs his hands down his arms, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. Dilated eyes that give off his nervousness and his crooked smile shows that he’s genuine. Thighs brushing up against one another when he sits down beside him. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to go to any restaurant or to Hongdae, so I went for roses.”

Jongin throws his arms around Chanyeol, sniffling. Though unspoken, they both know that restaurants don’t welcome them as freely once they’ve dubbed themselves lovers and not ‘just friends’. But that’s fine, because they can just exist in tandem with the rest of the world, tracing calloused fingertips across each others’ collarbones and neck.

“I like roses and lavenders,” Jongin reassures him, all muffled into Chanyeol’s shirt. The bouquet is beside him now, the sound of crinkling wrapping paper when he shifts around so that his legs are across Chanyeol’s lap. It’s daring, but they don’t mind. “I like flowers a lot, they make me feel beautiful.”

The flowers tossed on stage by the front-seaters, the ones who say that their characters and roles are beautiful but really the dancers themselves.

But this time, someone hands him the flowers instead of hurling it at him.

“When did you plan this?” Jongin asks, admiration clear in his body language. He watches as Chanyeol points to a table clothed in red, a vase of lilies and lavenders in it with expensive plates meant for two.

“I spent awhile thinking what I should do.” Chanyeol runs his touch across Jongin’s thigh, gentle and nurturing. “Last week, I decided on this. I called Baekhyun and asked on his thoughts on the best florist for this. It’s funny, well not really, but I thought I fell out of contact with Baekhyun for good but he’s so adamant on helping me when it comes to you. You really did piece my life together.”

“You did that on your own.” Jongin breathes in cologne of spices and comfort. Chanyeol seems so _classy,_ but his puppy-like eyes speaks of a different song. “It’s all you, it’s not me at all.”

When they near the dinner table, Jongin can hear faint music from a music player on the side. He recognizes it instantly as _Coppelia_ , the ballet he did when he was eighteen and wedged in between other corp members for the scenes.

The sun starts to flicker as a burst of purple and blue seep through the skies like watercolors.

“Are you afraid of bugs at night?” Jongin teases when Chanyeol is lighting the candle between them with unsteady hands. “There’s a lot in spring.”

“Spring, huh?” Chanyeol puts the lighter away. “I met you in winter and now it’s spring.”

“It is spring.” Jongin folds the napkin across his lap as he was taught by some faint mother he barely remembers. She looked like him, and that’s all he can recall from his sisters. “And you’re still here.”

“So, I let Baekhyun and Yoora cook the meals.” Chanyeol’s face is a mixture of regret and comical relief. “I really shouldn’t have, but they insisted and I couldn’t resist their pouty faces.” He scratches the nape of his neck while frowning.

Jongin chuckles. “Well, we’ll see.” He lifts up the cover of the tray and could tell it was Yoora’s work right away. The smear of sauce on the beef dotted with a smiley face. “Well, it’s cute.”

Chanyeol groans, and Jongin sticks his hand out to poke his forehead, stopping the other man from slamming his head down in frustration. His hair all sticks up when he grabs a fistful of his hair and muttering curses. Jongin, unsure what to do, keeps petting him with a careful hand.

“I shouldn’t have let Baekhyun and her cook,” he whines. “It’s probably more raw than cooked!”

“No, no!” Jongin shakes his head hastily. “I’m sure it tastes good, see?” He stabs his fork through the meat and tears through it with a knife. Though hesitant, he chews it up as his tongue rejects it and his gag reflect kicks in. Meat isn’t supposed to be rubbery, is it? Not wanting to hurt Chanyeol’s feelings, he forces a terrible smile.

Chanyeol looks up and holds a hand under Jongin’s chin. “Spit it out,” he urges. “I don’t want you to have any food poisoning. Spit it out.”

“Im youb hamd?” Jongin splutters, which translates to ‘ _i_ _n your hand’?_

Chanyeol nods, his laughter breaking through his sorrowed face. “Yes, in my hand.”

“But—”

Chanyeol tilts his chin with his finger, coaxing him. “Spit it out.” He tilts his head, crinkling up his eyes. “Don’t be embarrassed, it’s just me.”

_Oh but hyung, you’re more than ‘just you’._

Scrunching up his nose, Jongin does as he’s told. Clasping a hand across his mouth, a string of apologies come pouring out of him as Chanyeol wraps it into a napkin to throw away later. Chanyeol shakes his head and wipes his hand, his expression telling Jongin that it’s okay.

“Well, I ruined dinner.” Chanyeol does a half-smile. “How do you feel about take-out?”

After recovering from the appalling experience, Jongin jumps up and down. “Kyochon Chicken, Kyochon Chicken!” he exclaims, forgetting about the undercooked meat in front of him. “Do you like chicken, hyung? Lets eat Kyochon Chicken!”

“That’s in Hongdae, isn’t it?” he tries to clarify, taking out his phone and punching in a number. “I’ll call Baekhyun to pick it up then. I think his studio is down the street from there.”

Jongin lets Chanyeol have a few minutes to whisper-shout on the phone, some snippets like, “I told you if you couldn’t cook let me...” or: “...one cooking class in high school doesn’t give you validation!”

He sinks back into the seat for a full view of the garden. He hasn’t been in the backyard much, with it usually occupied with stacked up patio chairs and Chanyeol’s flowerbed is in the front. But now, with it nearly nighttime and the tree waving hello to him with a bit of Mother’s wind, he feels loved.

Under his foot are rose petals lying across the lawn, and the rose bushes in an almost even line by the fence. The lantern that usually swung by the front door is lit up with the usual moths dancing around it in a circle.

It’s beautiful, but Jongin finds himself staring at Chanyeol more than the flowerbeds.

The way he curls up against his seat, the phone pressed to his ear and squishing his cheek. The ring band on his index finger he’s twisting around—one, two, three times. It’s hard to fathom the age of the man, who insists on twenty-nine when really his thoughts sleep in children’s books.

Jongin curls his fingers into the fabric of his shirt. Maybe they can’t write each others’ chapters, or draft out sentences to complete them. Jongin wants to complete his own chapters with his own prose and characters. His name will be embed in his own skin as the author, but perhaps Chanyeol can read his life chapters out loud, the two of them slumped in sleep together when he’s completed, when they’re both completed. Jongin will write his own life chapters, and Chanyeol will keep these pages tucked in his heart.

And he will do the same.

“Baekhyun says he’ll pick up the—are you crying?” Chanyeol shoots up abruptly, his chair toppling over. “Is it because I ruined the date? I’m sorry, I’ll make our second and third better, Jongin, please don’t cry!”

“No, no.” Jongin leans down to hide in his lap. “It’s not that, I love it. I’m just, I’m just _grateful."_

Chanyeol is squeezing his shoulders in a relaxing massage, murmuring ‘it’s okays’ and ‘I’m grateful, too’.

They’re back on the bench, abandoning the table of Yoora and Baekhyun’s undercooked meals. Jongin is still thankful towards them, because they tried. Jongin had wiped his face dry again with the cloth napkin and is laying on his side on Chanyeol’s lap because he insisted so.

“I like the weight of you on me,” Chanyeol admits. “You’re so light but I just like having you close.”

“Why?”

“I feel safer.”

It’s dark now, the swinging lanterns as their light source and moths as company. Chanyeol points to the sky, and Jongin cranes his neck to follow.

“You’d think in this quiet neighborhood, we’d see stars.” Chanyeol shrugs. “It’s too bad, a starry scenery would have completed this night.”

“You can see stars around Chuncheon and Andong, the east coasts.” Jongin snuggles in closer to him. “We should go one day. Just us two.”

“The olden city?” Jongin can practically hear the smile in Chanyeol’s voice. “That would be nice, we should.”

Crickets rubbing their legs together between the rocks in the flowers, and Chanyeol is humming along to the change in music. “Isn’t this Sook Lee?” Jongin asks, tapping his fingers to the familiar beat. He remembers back when he was a child, Jungah and Eunhee would dance to her hits in the living room, laughing with their boyfriends as he listens in from his bedroom. He misses those days, but he can barely make out their faces now. “I didn’t think you’d be the one to listen to old 70’s.”

Chanyeol pinches his nose and Jongin whines. “I didn’t think you’d know Sook Lee. I’m old, you know.”

“You’re only twenty-nine!”

“I’m almost thirty.” Chanyeol groans. “Why am I so old? Wouldn’t you want to date someone younger?” It’s a joke, a tease, but reluctance hints at his tone.

“I wouldn’t want to date anyone else.” Jongin turns over so that he’s facing Chanyeol. He looks down at him, hand in his hair, strands between his fingers and just as silky. Jongin knows he’s not that attractive lying down, but the way he looks at him, it makes him feel—

“I love you.”

The flowers are in full bloom this spring.

“I love you,” Chanyeol repeats, almost panicky. “I really care about you and I have ever since we ate breakfast when I met you and I’ve always looked forward to you in the physio and insisted Jongdae trade spots with me so I could be the one to tend to your ankle problems and talk to you and you’re, _you’re here._ You’re here with me and I love you.”

_I love you._

Jongin doesn’t know what to say. In the rom-coms, the girl always replies back and they’d get married within the next twenty minutes of the movie. But they’re not characters from chick-flicks nor is there any girl for him to swoop down and declare a nuptial.

And he doesn’t care.

Hands reaching up to grab a fistful of Chanyeol’s shirt, he pulls him down without much notice and their lips meet. It’s an awkward position, because Chanyeol has to bend his back and Jongin’s neck feels strained. Getting the signal, Chanyeol unconsciously wraps his hands underneath Jongin and supports his back, bringing him up so that he’s sitting in his lap.

In rom-coms, they say that their lover’s lips taste like sugar or a girl’s lipstick.

In Jongin’s life chapters, Chanyeol’s mouth brings mint and a sense of calm washing over them both. Jongin’s hands struggle to grip on his arms, teeth grazing across chapped lips and nose bumping a few times. They’re not perfect, but Jongin loves him.

In rom-coms, the camera flares and zooms into the couple, and cue the BGM and dramatic lighting.

In this moment, of long-awaited kisses and a garden of dirt and roses, Jongin can only hear the buzzing of bugs around the lanterns and crickets singing their messy songs.

Perched on his lap, he adjust his injured leg so that it doesn’t dig into Chanyeol’s body. The other man steadies his hands on his waist, craning his neck to mold his lips against Jongin’s. Chanyeol’s back is pressed against the uncomfortable bench but the feeling of Jongin’s hands gripping the back of his neck makes everything go numb.

When they pull apart, strings of saliva is shared between them but they don’t care. Chanyeol wipes the edge of his mouth with his thumb, his eyes heavy with fireworks as their breaths mingle in the warm air.

In rom-coms, everyone in the theater claps and they’re in awe.

In Jongin’s life, he smiles down at the man in his life, and his lips move on his own.

“I love y—”

The gates swing open and hit the back fence without any mercy. “I have brought chicken and drinks, oh my God.” Baekhyun nearly drops the plastic bags and shrinks back comically. “I have walked into a porno, Jesus Christ.”

Jongin scrambles off Chanyeol, cheeks just as red as his swollen lips. “It’s not a porno, Baekhyun.” Chanyeol sighs and wraps his arm across Jongin’s shoulder. “Stop overreacting, you should have gone to theatre school instead of art school.”

Baekhyun blows a raspberry and stacks all the takeout boxes on the table. He peers over at the food and grins boyishly. “I kind of forgot to turn on the cooker the right way,” he admits, poking the meat with the fork. “So I microwaved it. But Yoora told me to! She also marinated it.”

Chanyeol squints. “What did she marinate it with?”

“Salt.”

“Oh my God.”

Jongin nudges Chanyeol. “It’s okay, don’t get mad at Baekhyun-hyung.” He relaxes. “Thank you for stopping by, hyung.”

Baekhyun winks, his pink hair flopping when he bounces across the lawn. He plops down between the two, surprising them both. “Well, since I’m here, I might as well introduce the language of,” he points his foot towards the flower bushes. “Flowers. Art. _Nature."_

“Go away Baekhyun,” Chanyeol says flatly.

“First lesson!” Baekhyun shouts, ignoring his friend. “Red roses. They symbolize love, yada-yada. Courage, and respect! All, that good stuff right? Unconditional love, and uh, abiding love. I think. Oh, oh! And rosebuds symbolize youth and innocence, and domestic bliss.”

Chanyeol sighs. “That’s great and all, but shouldn’t you get going?”

Baekhyun smacks Chanyeol up side the head. “I’m not done! Lavenders represent devotion and loyalty. Kind of like a clingy leech. There’s also purity in them, and that’s why they’re so healing to people.” His eyes twinkles. “So if you intertwine roses and lavenders, you get a devoted love with nothing but purity. That’s all I learned in the four-week course of flower symbolism in art school.”

The three of them don’t say anything for a minute, until Baekhyun pats both of their knees and hops off the bench. Chanyeol pulls out his wallet and hands his best friend 30,000 wons. “For the meal,” he insists. “Thanks for picking it up.”

Baekhyun giggles. “Sweet! This is going towards hot girls at the bar.” He waves with both hands and skips to the fence. “Have fun, my roses and lavenders!” he shouts, and pets the tips of the flowers before disappearing behind the car, his wild pink hair the last thing they see.

They wait until they hear the car drive away into the distant, towards Hongdae.

Chanyeol wipes his hands before opening the box of chicken. “Eat up, even if it’s just fast food and I was going for a fancy date.”

“I’m still really happy.” Jongin unscrews their soft-drinks. They eat their meals to Sook Lee and Kwang-seok’s songs, their fingers oily and the sauce never leaving the corner of their mouth. Laughter shared between them and so are their drinks, and they try to keep their voice down to not wake up the nearby neighbors.

When their takeout boxes are all crushed into the trashcan, Chanyeol had laid out blanket across the yawn for the two of them to stretch across on.

Jongin pats his stomach. “I’m so full, if I was doing ballet now they’d yell at me.” His voice is light and cheery.

“Live a little,” Chanyeol reminds him, his hair tickling the side of Jongin’s head. “And be healthy.”

They don’t see any stars that night, but they settle for the city smokes and the dark sky painted across over them.

“Hyung?” he asks, his voice just as low as the lights. “Can you tell me why you’re afraid of hospitals?”

Jongin expects Chanyeol to recoil, stiffen a bit and not answer. Instead, when he looks over, Chanyeol’s face is calm and his hand is still on top of his.

Deep breaths.

“I used to work in Busan at a hospital. I finished up my residency already so it was my first year. Minjun was one of my first patients who had to undergo heavy medication and was asleep most of the time. He had a twin sister, who went by Jihee. Her real name was Yeseul, but she didn’t like it.” He smiles fondly, but it’s so torn that Jongin regrets asking.

“Minjun was a good kid, you know? He’s always laughing and always poked fun at my ears. He was a bright fourteen-year-old, but always bed-bound. He liked football, but couldn’t play.” Chanyeol seems like he’s counting the number of times he’s blinking. Too rapidly. “Jihee always brought him a football but he always threw it away, always upset.”

Deep thoughts.

“And I felt at peace around them. Minjun reminded me of Kyungsoo because of their owl-like eyes and stubborn attitude. Jihee almost had to repeat a year because she stayed at the hospital more often than she stayed in the class.” Chanyeol looks pained, and Jongin soothes him by running his hand across his knuckles. “Their parents were barely there, so I felt like I...”

He chokes on air, choking violently with his eyes shut.

“If it hurts you, then don’t talk about it,” Jongin begs. “I’m sorry.”

“No apologies,” Chanyeol reminds him, clearing his throat. “I’m fine, really. It has been a long time, so I should be fine.” _Should be,_ but he’s not. “Jihee would always sleep on her brother’s arm when he was on a high dosage of painkillers. I felt like their older brother, I guess.”

Crickets continue their chirps.

“Minjun’s dream was to pull luck out of nowhere and play for the Lotte Giants. His sister’s dream was to move to Seoul because Busan is too boring. She hated being called a ‘country bumpkin’.” His eyes are in another world. “But Minjun was so sick, but he just _wanted_ to be good. To be healthy.”

Secrets exchanged through the night air, there’s just something daring about that.

“There was the option for surgery,” his voice shakes. “But Jihee didn’t want that for her brother and neither did Minjun. You know, if he got the surgery, he wouldn’t be able to do any physical activities. No football.”

Jongin rises from the blankets, his face hovering over Chanyeol, hoping his eyes will be enough to say ‘ _I’m here for you’._

Chanyeol’s eyes are just as red as the petals in the grass. “So I kept saying no to the surgery. I denied the surgery because they didn’t want it but, you know, Jongin? It was selfish. I was being a selfish fucking prick.” Jongin flinches and fastens his grip on Chanyeol’s wrists. “He should have gotten the surgery, he should have gotten the surgery, _Minjun should have._ ”

His hysteria became too much for the both of them, so Jongin has the man hide in his chest instead of the other way around. Chanyeol’s hands wrestle around, unsure whether to hold onto Jongin’s shirt or his hands.

“Stop it,” Jongin whispers. “Stop doing this to yourself.”

“But I—”

“Stop it!” Jongin forgets about the sleeping neighbors. “Stop forcing yourself to play hero.”

Chanyeol goes limp in his arms. “I should’ve let Minjun get the surgery,” he croaks. “He couldn’t survive on medication or painkillers for long, and I-I knew that. I knew that but yet I still didn’t...”

“You just wanted to protect his dreams,” Jongin reassures him, his own voice broken. “Stop beating yourself over it.”

“I almost lost him.”

The crickets stop.

“Jihee almost lost him,” Chanyeol continues, hyperventilating. “I almost l-lost the kid and he wasn’t breathing and he was so _pale_ and his eyes didn’t open and I-I almost lost him, I almost did and I can’t, _I can’t,_ Jongin, I can’t!”

“Chanyeol,” Jongin tries to snap him out of it, gripping the sides of his neck and forcing his lover to look at him in the eyes and not shrink back. “Stop it, damn it, _stop it!_ ”

Chanyeol regains his breathing, his hands fidgeting as he runs them over Jongin’s. “I still remember Jihee crying at 3 AM. She was wearing a face mask on hospital regulations and her eyes were so swollen the day after.”

“But, Minjun is okay, isn’t he?” Jongin asks nervously, afraid to shatter the boy in his arms. “Minjun is okay, right?”

“He was transferred to a different physician.” Even though his eyes are closed, Jongin can see his eyes darting under thin eyelids. His lashes all stick to each other and bats against wet cheeks. “He got the surgery he was supposed to. But he’s, he’s not the same. Not the same and it’s my fault.”

_My fault._

_No._

“It was a malpractice.”

They wonder if the skies can get any darker than this.

“It was a malpractice and yet,” Chanyeol swallows thick saliva. “I wasn’t sued. They didn’t press charges against me and _fuck,_ I can’t sleep without seeing Jihee’s begging her parents to not sue me, to not sue me and to forgive me and I still don’t deserve it. She kept begging, _don’t sue don’t sue don’t sue don’t fucking sue._ Jongin, I almost _fucking killed a boy._ ”

“No you didn’t!” Jongin counters him, not caring for the neighbors. He shakes up Chanyeol’s shoulders, his voice hard. “Minjun is alive. You didn’t kill him. He’s still alive and breathing and you believed in him. His sister believed in him and so did you.”

“They didn’t sue,” Chanyeol says again, his words all stringy and detached. “They didn’t sue me and I got away. I...I got away and,” he pulls away from Jongin and covers his head with his arms. _A little boy._ “I can’t look at hospitals without seeing Minjun and Jihee’s faces, I can’t. I can’t at all.”

“But you did,” says Jongin. He scoots closer to Chanyeol and holds him close once again. “You went to the hospital for me and you were so _strong,_ hyung.”

“That’s different, you’re different.” Chanyeol shakes his head. “I haven’t seen them in two years.”

Jongin thinks of the garden on top of Joonmyun’s penthouse. No flowers and no room for happy talk. It’s different from the garden that sits between Old Noona’s house and Mr. Lee’s home of two, thrives with roses and lavenders planted by a man who loves him.

The same man who had broken down in the middle of all the roses and crickets.

“I love you.”

And this time, it’s Jongin saying it.

“I said we’ll fight the universe together, just you and me. Just our little thoughts and us. And that’s still true today and it will be the same tomorrow.” He loops his hands between Chanyeol’s, who is still hesitant and sniffling. “Thank you, for telling me your story. We’ll fight the universe together, and we’ll fix up the parts where Minjun and Jihee has broken in you. Don’t you worry.”

Chanyeol leans into him, caving in. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’m not sure, but we’ll figure that out, too. Together.”

In rom-coms, first dates are full of sparks and subtle giggles when the man drops the woman off at her doorsteps, kissing her for the first time.

In their lives, first dates are of flowerbeds and putting band-aids over where the wounds hurt the most.


	23. The King in Yellow

“You sure about this?” Baekhyun presses, the sound of the seat belt whipping back to its place. “You still have a week before your cast comes off, you know? You can make a grand entrance that way, fully healed. You don’t have to come back now.”

Jongin smiles at his new found friend. “Hyung, it’s the last showing for _Giselle._ I should see it at least, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes but,” Baekhyun points to the theatre. “Isn’t it fucking hell in there? Do you _really_ want to go back to hell? Especially with Chanyeol in there? If he finds out that I drove you here he’ll castrate me.”

“He won’t castrate you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ll take the blame then.” Jongin shrugs off his seat belt. “I’ll say I conned you into doing it.”

“Plausible.”

The flowers that Baekhyun helped him pick out with much doubt at the floral shop are heavy in his hands. They shouldn’t be, but then his heart shouldn’t feel like rocks either. He’s not dressed as comfortably, but he feels his injury doesn’t give him much options.

“Remember kiddo,” Baekhyun sticks up his two thumbs and wiggles them around. His mole near his nail flashes. “Walk with confidence, even with your crutches. Chin up and smile, kill them with your smile!”

One last hoot, Baekhyun scrambles out of the car to help Jongin off. He looks out of place, in his holey jeans again and his oversized t-shirt for someone thrice his size. The flower in one hand and the other steadying himself against the crutch. He’s on one crutch instead of two now, his leg healing quickly.

“Whoa.” Baekhyun lets out a low whistle when they enter through the spinning doors, the kind that goes in circles with see-through glass. “It’s so _fancy_ in here. It feels almost wrong to chew my gum in here.” He continues to chomp, eyeing the fake statue of _David_ with amusement.

People are gathering around, snapping pictures and talking in hushed conversations. They’re all dressed in tuck-in shirts and the women in dresses. A few of them shoot a withering glare in Baekhyun’s direction, who is oblivious to it all.

“The paintings are awesome!” he exclaims, his voice echoing. “Look at those paint strokes, the artist used a flat brush! Jongin, can you see it?”

Jongin nudges him. “You and your art, hyung.”

Baekhyun snaps out of his daze. “Oh, right. I should get going. I’m not going anywhere but my place is a mess and I should clean it up.” He wrinkles up his nose, kind of how a puppy would when they smell something foul. “You and Chanyeol should stop by, you know? I have a great view of busy Seoul.”

“We’d like that.” Jongin waves goodbye to the artist who is already squeezing between crowds of people. He doesn’t get the chance to say thank you when Baekhyun is already pushing his way out the door, amazed by the moving glass.

Reality is warped, he realizes, when the theatre is in showings. The chandeliers seem classical and welcoming when they’re lit, and all the people with their tickets in their clutch, chattering with friends and family. Jongin pushes himself against his crutch for support and starts walking down the dancer’s halls, where all the performers prepare with makeup powder and costumes.

“You’re not supposed to be here sir—” Jongin recognizes the voice. Soojung is in her costume for the first act, the romantic tutu seemingly of thick material when really it’s all feathery. Soojung widens his eyes and lets out a gasp. “Jongin, you’re here!”

“Hello Soojung.” Jongin can’t find it in him to smile. “It has been a while, a few weeks?”

Soojung fusses over him, her hands probing at his cast and his healed face. “Oh, it has, it really has. Poor Jonginnie, we were all shocked when we heard you were hospitalized and,” she breaks off. Her hair is in a set of stiff curls and the lipstick shade is much too dark for the villager she’s dancing as. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

“I’m alright, I’m recovering.” Jongin loosens up, the genuine glint to Soojung’s eyes puts him at ease. “You look beautiful, Soojung. How were the earlier shows?”

She jumps up and down, her pointe shoes padding against the floor when she does so. “They were marvelous. Everyone loved the Wilis scene.” Her jovial face droops. “I’m sorry about your role. Sehun seems pretty sad about it, I think. About taking your role. He has been visiting right? He says he stops by everyday.”

Jongin’s gum taste bitter in his mouth. _Right,_ he thinks, _no one really knows._ Sehun and his storage room smile, the kind that killed his Sehun. The boy whose hair of constellations deceived Jongin into thinking Yeonhui-dong has stars. He tries not to let the smile fall from his face, to please Soojung.

“Speaking of Sehun, where is his dressing room? I came to bring him flowers. For support on his last show.”

Soojung raises her brows. “Didn’t he tell you? He insisted on Joonmyun assigning him his own dressing room for the _Giselle_ showing. He took Luhan’s room.”

_Luhan._

“Where’s Luhan’s, then?”

Suspicion flickers across her caked-on face. “Well, he barely uses the rooms anymore. He comes already in costume and leaves right when his character is over. He hasn’t stayed for any congratulation dinners or anything. What does he do at home, Jongin?”

Jongin looks down the hallway. It’s the same gloomy lighting, with duffel bags tossed all over the floor and slumped against the wall. “I wouldn’t know,” he admits. “I moved out.”

“You _what_?”

He tries to pass off his smile as convincing. “I should really get going, Soojung. It was nice running into you, I’ll see you once the next season starts.”

“Wait!”

Jongin pretends not to hear her. Guilt pangs at his chest, but dismisses it quickly. _It’s alright, Jongin,_ he tells himself, _you don’t have to please everyone anymore. Not this time._

The familiar fliers of post-ballet shows, including _Swan Lake_ and _Alice in Wonderland_ are pinned on the bulletin board, forgotten and no one cared enough to take them down. Jongin finds himself stopping in front of them, hands moving to rip it all off, the sound of paper tearing apart pleasant to the ears.

Wadding them into balls, he tosses it into the wastebasket a few doors down. He can hear chatter from beyond the doors as he hobbles by, his leg limping but he’s not in pain. Jongin looks down at his flowers, making sure the ribbons are still wrapped around the bundle, like a noose.

He stops right in front of the dressing room, his hands steady for once and his breathing not out of pattern. Jongin stares at the heavy door with his chest unwinding itself of all the stress. Beyond the door and with the twist of a knob, a boy he used to love like a brother is there. The same kid who he used to measure their heights together with a pencil and the flat of the wall. The same ghost of a man who swore to be brothers when they both fell asleep on the stage during after lights.

He doesn’t rap his knuckles against the door to knock, because he’s tired of waiting for people.

The back of Sehun’s head still looks the same. The tuft of hair that sticks out on the back of his neck, regardless of how many bottles of hairspray sits on his hair. Jongin holds his breath when Sehun pats down his skin with his brush, remembering the nights before shows that they’d do it for each other.

“Just a moment—” Sehun catches Jongin in the mirror first, and fumbles with the brush. It drops to the floor and a layer of dust from the tip puffs out and clouds the air around it. Sehun pales, getting out of his seat in jerky motions. His costume is the same as Jongin’s when fitted, except made for a much slimmer body.

Jongin lets himself in. With quick strides, and Baekhyun's words echo in his messy thoughts. _Walk with confidence, even with your crutches. Chin up and smile, kill them with your smile._ Sehun’s lip thins into a line, his hands noticeable when he grips the edge of the table with his veins protruding.

The walls are bare, and all of Luhan’s belongings, the usual emptied packs of smoking sticks and energy drinks as decoration are gone from the table. In place is Sehun’s products and bag, and the room has lost its life.

“So you took my role,” Jongin starts off lightly. “And Luhan’s dressing room.”

It’s a low blow, but all Jongin can see is the storage room version of Sehun.

_You broke my heart before any lover could._

Sehun swallows. “What are you doing here?”

Jongin shuts the door behind him, leaning against it. “I’m still a part of the ballet. I should see it at least, even on the last day.” Sehun’s eyes lose focus, refusing to look at Jongin in the eye. His forehead glistens with sweat, but Jongin isn’t sure if it’s the makeup or his paranoia. Jongin softens his voice. “You don’t want me here? Why? You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?”

Sehun’s legs twitch and bend against one another. It’s one of his nervous habits, Jongin learned that at seventeen-years-old. His stage outfit, completed with the veil and flower crown of flower corpses is nested in his hair. Jongin can still see the panic in Sehun’s face in colors of red and white.

“Just get out,” Sehun growls, but Jongin doesn’t budge. “Get out of my dressing room.”

“Why did you do it?”

Sehun’s chews on his bottom lip when he’s frightened, Jongin learned that at age fifteen.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sehun breathes in, a shudder racking through his body. “Jongin, you need to leave. My scene starts soon.”

“By soon means 30 minutes. By start means an extra hour.” Jongin tilts his head, the flowers still tucked under his arms. “Please don’t tell me you forgot we learned that code together.” _We were ballet dansuers together._

_You broke that._

Sehun slumps down into his chair, one much too short for him and has him in an awkward position. His eyes dart across the room, at anywhere but Jongin. That’s also one of his bad habits, Jongin figured that out on Sehun’s parents’ anniversary.

“What do you want from me?” Sehun rasps. He’s clutching onto his shoulders with opposite hands, the charcoal eye makeup amplifying his dilated pupils. Jongin’s everything hurts, his heart, his head, and his hands from squeezing the roses’ thorns.

His thoughts are a mess. Jongin thinks, _I want an apology. I want you on your knees for breaking everything we had and I want you to tell me that our friendship wasn’t just storage room talk. I want you to tell me you’re going to move on and that I am, too. That you didn’t plan it to be this way and that you loved me in the same way I loved you. Like brothers, we were brothers and I want an apology. I want that from you._

“Nothing.” Jongin loosens his hands, a prickling ache in his palms. “I don’t want anything.”

Sehun snaps at the last part.

In the spur of the moment, Sehun kicks down his chair and before Jongin can take another breath, Sehun’s pulling on Jongin’s collar with gritted teeth. His eyes are wild and uncoordinated, and Jongin doesn’t think Sehun cares for his smeared makeup or his off-centered flower crown.

The King of the Wilis and the man.

_Maybe this was your role all along, Sehun._

“Stop being so nice you fuckin’ liar,” Sehun seethes. His nails are digging into Jongin’s skin, and he wonders how he’ll explain that to Chanyeol later, if he’ll even explain at all. “It pisses me off, and you damn well know it does. You’re not supposed to want _nothing._ You’re supposed to be fuckin’ around and telling the theatre the truth, the whole truth. You’re not supposed to bring me these damn roses and stay so cool, who do you think you are? You think you’re better than me, huh? That you crawl out of that shithole we called home and you can just waltz out with some man? Just cause your illness doesn't act up so bad these days? What are you, a freak? Running off with some man?” Sehun lets a bitter laugh spill out of his mouth.

“I don’t think I’m better,” Jongin replies, sounding cold. “I don’t think I’m better at all.” He lets the flowers drop by their feet, careful not to step on them. He curls his fingers around Sehun’s bony wrist, but it doesn’t budge.

“You fucking liar.”

“You’re not better, though.” Jongin tilts his head, and he thinks Sehun has drawn blood from his skin. “You ran off with a man to a storage room. Yixing? I didn’t know you broke women’s hearts for garden boys.”

Sehun slams him against the wall, ripping a wince from Jongin. “That’s different!” Sehun snarls, spit spewing out of rage. “That’s different and you damn know well it is. I don’t like men.”

“You just want affection.”

Sehun stops struggling.

“I know you, you’re like a brother to me!” It’s Jongin’s turn to shout. He lets his hands fly up to grip both of Sehun’s shoulders, the costume rough to the touch. “I know you just want affection from any person you can get! Whether it’s Luhan, Yixing, or Yoora—you’ll take it and thrive in it ‘til it drains them. I know you, Sehun, I know you _so fucking well._ You just want to make up for the love you never got from your orphanage—”

Sehun writhes out of his grasp and throws himself onto the floor, screaming.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, _shut up_!” he repeats over and over, like a broken record left abandoned. His ballet shoes are barely on, his heel poking out and showing thick skin. His eyes have trouble focusing on Jongin, who is still trying to recover his own breathing. “You don’t have that right, Jongin. You don’t have that right to talk to me like that. Get out, get out, get out, get out, get _out_!”

Jongin stares at Sehun. The man who celebrated his birthday alone last month, and blew out candles as he blew off his paycheck on alcohol. He remembers sixteen-year-old Sehun, the one who walked with his posture straight and his lips curled in a flirty quirk for any street girls to see. Jongin wonders if that sixteen-year-old was _his_ Sehun, or this Sehun.

This Sehun, that is curled up on the floor, weak fists slamming onto the wooden flooring.

“Why did you do it?” Jongin asks quietly. “Why did you pin it on Luhan?”

Sehun hastily throws his hands over his ears, his stage makeup running and his nose blotched red. He’s kicking his feet against the back of his chair, muttering something so low that Jongin can’t make out.

“He loved you,” Sehun chokes out like it’s dicing up his tongue. “He loved you instead of me and I spent every fuckin’ moment of my years watching _him_ watch _you._ It’s unfair, it’s unfair and you didn’t even care. You didn’t deserve to live in bliss, I _hated that about you._ ”

The walls crumble.

“But we were family.” Jongin bends down to pick up the flowers, which are still perky and full of life in the plastic wrapping. His hand shakes. The ribbon has slid off, and Jongin tries to tie it back up. “We were family and that’s not how things go.”

Sehun throws his head back and lets off a brittle sound that resembles laughter, or a banshee. “You’re the only one that thought that,” Sehun whispers, like it’s the universe’s secret. “I never thought you as a brother.”

There are few things that can hurt Jongin at this point, and Sehun holds one of them.

“I was in love with him,” Sehun utters, his face pain-stricken. His voice cracks like a young boy, and Jongin is starting to believe that he really is just that young. “You took that away from me. And you know what? When you left, I thought that _finally,_ Luhan will pay attention to me.”

An unspoken ‘ _but he didn’t’_ lingers in the air.

_Sehun never existed at all._

Jongin sucks in the thick air, tears welling in his eyes. It’s not because of Sehun, it’s not. At least that’s what he tells himself, _I’m just tired._ He fixes his shirt collar, his fingers fumbling.

“That’s not love, then.” Jongin sounds a little bitter. Sehun blinks, his eyes shadowed with charcoal and red-rimmed. “You were just greedy.”

Jongin looks at himself in the mirror. His hair is a bit messy in the back from being pushed up against the wall, but his eyes are clear and his smile isn’t broken just yet. He crouches down beside Sehun, who still doesn’t look at him. Jongin’s hand twitches, and he has to stuff it into his pockets to keep himself from reaching up and stroking the back of Sehun’s hair, like they used to do.

“ _I never thought of you as a brother.”_

Jongin shivers. _That’s okay._

“Will you tell me then?” Jongin’s voice is stuck in his throat. “That those mornings where you held my hand, or the dinners you made for me when I was sick, were those not real? When you slept in the same bed as me during my night terrors, was that just an act, too? Will you tell me that, then? That you didn’t see me as a brother?”

Sehun doesn’t answer.

He takes Sehun’s limp hands instead, which are just as cold as before and calloused. Like a puppet, he slips the flowers into his hands, the sweet simplicity of curled petals, the tips are a cruel gold and the rest dipped in a soft yellow. _Yellow roses._

Sehun’s eyes are blank.

“Yellow roses, huh?” Sehun seems to be talking to himself.

Jongin stands up, shifting all the weight onto his good leg. He grabs his crutch and makes his way towards the door, leaving Sehun in his dressing room and bouquet of golden flowers.

“Ask your garden boy about them.” Jongin jerks his chin towards the flowers. “He’ll know.”

“You weren’t supposed to have a good life.”

Sehun hugs the flowers close to him, his usually broad shoulders diminished. The thorns are poking through the plastic and probing at his skin, but he’s pressing the flowers to his skin without much fuss. The sight is almost painful to Jongin, seeing the King of the Wilis kiss flowers like this.

“I was the one,” Sehun continues, his eyes wet and his lip swollen from biting down too hard. “I was the one that needed a good life, not you. Yet, you dragged me down to where you were. I was supposed to be the one who got out of that orphanage and dance with lovers. So why did you take that good life away from me? _So why did you?”_

_Why did I?_

Jongin thinks back to when he fooled himself into thinking they were brothers. The photograph that he took from the little red house, with their quirky smiles and too-young eyes, Jongin is almost certain that they were brothers, at least in that photo.

He doesn’t feel sad. Maybe those good nights and good mornings from Sehun were meant to be temporary, and their bike rides and coffee runs weren’t with good intentions. Jongin won’t say that he isn’t going to miss the sound of Sehun humming to the songs of dead pianists, and dancing with one another, sharing the stage with several others.

He isn’t sad, because it’s a chapter of his life that has reached the last page. But Jongin won’t let it end on a cliffhanger, not like his other ones.

“For most of my years, I’ve always thought you a prince and Luhan a king. It has always been that way, and me, the peasant who admired every curve and every word of you. But now looking at you—you’re really king. King Judas Iscariot.”

King of the Wilis.

Jongin lets the King weep into his yellow roses in silence. 

♕♕♕

Jongin pulls out his phone. What used to be the default screen is now a photo of him and Chanyeol, cheeks squished up and light in their eyes. Something tugs at the corner of his mouth, tempting him to smile. He calls Chanyeol, waiting for him to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Hyung,” Jongin hopes he can hear the smile in him. “I’m at the theatre. We should watch the show together.”

“You’re here?” Chanyeol asks incredulously. “Who drove you? You should have asked me, I would’ve picked you up.”

“You would’ve given me a lecture on what to do if the ballet dancers harass me upon seeing me.” Jongin clinks across the hallway, trying to make it back to the lobby where it’s all gold and bright. “Baekhyun-hyung drove me, don’t hurt him. I asked him to pick me up.”

Chanyeol sighs. “That Baekhyun, I oughta do something.” Jongin can hear Jongdae’s whiny laughter in the background, shouting something to Dr. Lim and Dr. Kim. “I was going to watch it with Jongdae, so let’s ditch them, huh Jongin? We’ll get the seats in the back.”

Jongin chuckles when Jongdae’s whine gets louder. “Stop ditching us, Chanyeol! I don’t want to be stuck between Dr. Lim and Dr. Kim’s talk about how hot the dancers are!”

“Don’t you guys have to be on medic watch?” Jongin asks, confused. “In case one of them gets hurt on stage?”

Jongdae pipes in, shoving Chanyeol to the side with a _grunt._ “It’s our off-day. Plus, Joonmyun has two other people in the field back stage. It’s our only chance to watch the ballet today.”

Chanyeol teases him, a bit muffled when he has his hand on the floor. “Where are you, Jongin? Let's go together.”

“Do you want to meet in the lobby? In front of the statue of the _David_?” Jongin suggests. “I’m almost there.”

They hang up, and Jongin quickens his pace without putting too much strain on his leg. He continues walking along, until he passes by the back doors. He halts in his steps, the door slightly opened with a wedge holding it in place. He can see the place where he and Chanyeol sat the day the rumors appeared a while ago, but this time, he sees the hunched shoulders of a man and smoke.

Luhan’s in his costume for Act I, the corset-like material hugging his already small waist like a choker. His hair is styled but Jongin can tell he has ran his hands through them, some of the strands sticking up stubbornly. Only half of his face is visible to Jongin, and he can almost fool himself into believing that it’s a statue instead of a man.

His lips are glossy and red, most likely stage makeup as some of it is rubbed off on the cigarette wrapping nestled between his fingers. His eyes are glassy and just as pink, a stark contrast to fluttery lashes that bats too furiously to be normal.

_Luhan, have you started your new story yet?_

A puff of smoke births from his mouth, a subtle pucker and his cheekbones too high and too hollow.

In another life—in earlier chapters—he’d heave himself on the ledge with Luhan, and ask for a stick to smoke away their stresses. Maybe he’d kiss the back of Luhan’s neck, back when it wasn’t wrong and they were still some sort of family.

Jongin tears his eyes away from the haunting sight, and towards the lobby. In the distance, he can see Chanyeol in his usual sweater and slacks, and his glasses that slips off his nose when he smiles widely. He’s talking to Jongdae, who had stripped himself of his white coat and name tag. In that moment, they just looked like normal people instead of doctors who dealt with petulant and hectic dancers.

Jongin looks back at Luhan, who has his eyes shut and his lips parted. His legs swing back and forth, the back of his heels hitting the stone in a bruising manner.

_We’re two different stories now._

Jongin walks a bit further and waves to Chanyeol, who breaks away from conversation with Jongdae to jog over to his side. Chanyeol steadies him by resting his hands on his shoulders, giving him a once-over to make sure he’s alright.

“You okay?” Chanyeol asks worriedly. “Did Baekhyun at least help you into the place? You can’t tear your leg just yet, it’s coming off next week. Okay?” He pats Jongin’s head with nothing but affection.

 _Affection,_ Jongin likes it.

“Jongin is a strong guy, he’s not broken.” Jongdae winks. “Let’s go sit down, huh? We all got our tickets?”

Jongin nods, allowing himself to lean against Chanyeol. He looks down at him, his lips soft and his eyes just as. They both know they can’t kiss right there, because the universe isn’t ready for that yet, not ready for two men kissing in public.

Instead, they intertwine hands, wrists bumping against each others’ as they walk past the statue of _David_.

 

 

♕♕♕

“I honestly think you should take another week before going back into the theatre.” Chanyeol pouts when they park the car. He stuffs the keys in his pockets before twisting his body to face Jongin. “Just to be extra careful!”

“Chanyeol,” Jongin nudges him in the rib. “Unlock the car, hyung. I’ve been doing physical therapy with Jongdae and you for weeks after I got the cast off. I’m ready to get back into the season, don’t baby me!”

“I’m not. I’m just,” he sighs. “Okay, I’m sorry, you’re right. You’re strong and healthy. Right, right.”

They both get off the car, Chanyeol shuffling behind him with his hand hovering over Jongin’s back. Jongin lets his hand stay there, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He had almost missed the feeling; the heaviness of the bag bumping against his thigh as he hurried to the station.

Chanyeol pushes up his glasses, his sneaky hand finding a way to interlock with Jongin’s. The streets of Seoul are busy, and of course there are stares. A little girl with her hand in her mouth widens her eyes, and her father frowns when they walk past the two. A few months back, the old Jongin may have shrunk back and hide his hands from the rest of the world.

But this time, it’s just them two against the rest of the universe.

They stand in front of the theatre, which towers them with threats in its shadows. Chanyeol pokes Jongin’s cheek, relaxing him. “Sorry, it just...felt like forever since I danced with everyone.” Jongin takes a deep breath. “But I’m really happy.”

“Why?”

Jongin leans in so much that Chanyeol would have toppled over if he didn’t shift his weight. They both laugh at that, all stuffy and humid in the Seoul summer air. A few weeks back, Chanyeol suggested a small vacation to _Deokjeokdo,_ with Baekhyun and Yoora. “It’s a small island off the mainland, it’s by boat so Baekhyun is going to get seasick, but that’s fine,” he had told him when they were toying with one another’s fingers in the late mornings.

“I love you,” Jongin says, and it’s the thousandth time he has said it since they said it the first time in late April. It never fails to make his heart clench and weep, but he loves that feeling. Yoora calls it ‘butterfly heart’, but Jongin just named it Chanyeol.

Chanyeol pulls him in closer, so that their ribs dig into each other. They forget that they’re in the middle of Seoul, strangers walking around and grunting, along with foreigners asking for directions. Chanyeol leans down and presses a gentle kiss on the side of Jongin’s mouth.

“Me too.” Chanyeol opens the door to the theatre. “I love you, too.”

Jongin and Chanyeol both take the first step into the theatre together.


	24. Epilogue

Jongin stumbles through the shower rooms. “I woke up late!” he rushes out, Hansol chuckling when he throws him a clean towel from the pile. “Chanyeol didn’t set my alarm right with the new clock. I’m sorry, it’s my bad!”

“No problem.” Taeil jerks a thumb towards the shower hall. “There’s two open down there, but I’d go to the one on the left instead. Kyuhyun-hyung’s pubes are all over the place. It’s kinda gross.”

Jongin wrinkles his nose. “Noted, thanks Taeil.” He quickly opens his lock and pulls out his shampoo bottles and hurries to the hall. His feet slip a few times but he catch himself on the sides. Shrinking away from the stall Taeil warned him about, he quickly throws his shirt over his head and shimmies out of his jeans. He yelps when the water splashes his head, throwing him off.

Rinsing out all of the shampoo foam from his hair, he throws himself out of the stall with water dripping down his entire body. Ten is leaning on the tiled walls beside him, snorting when he hands him his duffel bag.

“Change here,” he speaks in a thick accent but overall smooth. “Boys are playing wrestling in the main room.”

Jongin grins, mouthing a ‘thank you’ when he pulls over a thin t-shirt over his torso. It sticks to his wet body but he doesn’t particularly care. Ten turns his eyes away when Jongin slips on his dance belt, and Jongin whacks him on the arm for it.

“What are you looking away for?” Jongin jokes. “We’ve seen everyone’s private parts here.”

Ten shrugs, but he’s still looking away. “I don’t want Chanyeol-ssi coming after me,” he admits. “He’s very protective over you. He is also tall. Scary.”

After Jongin finishes changing, he throws his arm over Ten and pulls him close, the other hand clutching onto his duffel and dance flats. “You’re into girls,” Jongin points out. “So he wouldn’t care. And don’t worry about Chanyeol, he’s just goofy like that. His threats are empty.”

Ten gives in and goes limp in Jongin’s side, the two of them throwing their bags by their lockers and squeezing between the two partially-naked corps dansuers wrestling. Ten grunts and mutters something in Thai, and Jongin wonders when Ten is going to go through with his promise of teaching him the language.

“I really hate _The Nutcracker,_ ” Ten scowls. “Especially since they always bring the children to the shows and scream whenever one of us does a jump or something.”

Jongin pats him on the shoulder sympathetically. No one likes being the snowflakes in the corps. The costumes are usually sweaty and rigid, regardless of how many costume changes and adaptations they’ve made over the few years.

“It’s winter tradition, Ten. You’ll learn to love it.” Jongin pauses. “Or at least, tolerate it.”

They make their way to the _Taglioni_ studio, which has been remodeled recently for better windows and lighting. It’s Ten’s favorite, and it is usually where instructor Siwon holds his morning stretches for everyone. The studio is where everyone is equal on the barres; the soloists, the principals and the corps members. At least, they’re _meant_ to be equals, but they never really are.

Siwon is throwing around broken French when the two sneak in, each to their respective spots. Ten goes to the other side of the room, throwing a thumbs up his way before falling into conversation with the girl next to him. Jongin tugs up his leg warmers, feeling a tap on his shoulder. Turning around, he sees a smiling Yixing.

“Hey, you.” Yixing is standing, his feet flat on the floor and his hand resting on the barre. “Scoot over just a few centimeters, I might accidentally kick you in the head.” His eyes are teasing when he says this, his bedhead hair a usual good look for him.

Jongin moves over while still on the floor. His warmers are kissing his kneecaps when he jumps up, placing his hands on his section of the barre. Yixing, amused as always, mimes him.

“So, Sugar Plum Fairy,” Jongin starts, and Yixing’s face goes sour. “Hyung, how does it feel to do the role again?”

Yixing hangs his head. There’s his trademark bruise close to his elbow when he rolls up his sleeves. “I’m getting sick of it. You should take the role next year, or Seulgi.”

Jongin chuckles. “I think Seulgi-noona is sick of the role, too. It’s one of the few times she’ll reject the spotlight.”

Siwon strolls by their section, so they both shut up. Talks with Yixing only consists of small smiles exchanged on shared stages and morning chat during barres. Jongin sees the back of Yixing’s head more than the front, his bag too big for his shoulders when he hurries into the locker rooms to change.

An hour passes and everyone is groaning, their backs aching and wiggling out of their sweatshirts despite the snow fluttering outside. Ten hurries over to Jongin, his bangs sticking up but his smile is still good.

“Should we go to Myeongdong after company hours?” Ten asks eagerly. He’s all sweaty, his forehead glistening and his mouth as red as a strawberry. “I want to buy some of that _Osulloc_ tea again, Joonmyun-ssi says it’s good for detoxifying.”

Jongin ruffles up his best friend’s hair. “Joonmyun-hyung also says four shots of vodka is good for the soul.” He rips off his warmers and balls it up. “I’m sorry, Ten-ah, but I can’t. It’s Chanyeol’s day-off today and I’m going to Busan tomorrow, so I need to pack.” He scratches the back of his neck, guilt chewing on his skin when Ten pouts.

He cherishes every hour he has with Chanyeol. Hospital work has been eating him up for the most part, and therapy sessions every Saturday evening leaves him exhausted and jittery. But the man still manages to smile down at Jongin, and never misses dinner with him. Jongin's heart aches thinking of it, and he feels warmth spill in his chest.

“You think Johnny will go with me?” Ten asks, eyes wide. Jongin can’t help but crack a smile at that. Ten has been fawning over the new ballet transfer from Chicago for weeks like a fanboy. “Do you think he likes tea, Jongin?”

Jongin nods, giving him some boost. “Do you want anything in Busan? I’m only there for a day but I heard Busan sells some good teas in their shops. At least, that’s what Chanyeol said.”

Ten shakes his head. “Who needs Busan tea when I can get some in Myeongdong with Johnny?” He claps his hands excitedly. “I think he’s heading to the locker room. I’ll catch you later for lunch, Jongin! I need to hurry.”

Jongin watches as the boy scurries off, following Johnny like a duckling.

He throws his sweatshirt over his shoulders trudges through the emptied studio, minus Siwon who is not-so subtly on _Pokemon-Go._ Jongin will keep his secret for him, away from Joonmyun who loathes the game more than he despises the media outlets.

Swinging the doors wide open, his whistling is halted to a stop when he nearly slams into a man. Sehun stumbles back, clutching his chest. He seem frazzled, and even more taken aback when he looks up to see Jongin. His eyes flicker else where, his duffel bag heavy on his shoulder as he tilts a bit to appease to the weight.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Jongin nods. It has been a rocky three years, the whole company talking up a storm and making theories on why the two ‘brothers of the theatre’ broke away. _We were brothers, right?_ he still wonders to this day, but never voiced it whenever he sees a hasty Sehun slamming his locker and disappearing just as quickly as he came.

No one knows about the King in Yellow and his golden roses.

“It’s fine,” Jongin steps aside, letting Sehun go by. “I didn’t mean to rush out.”

Sehun bites his bottom lip hard, before nodding stiffly and heading off in his direction. His shoulders are rigid and his walk isn’t without a bite. Jongin watches as he drifts into pace with the other corps, and a soft smile spreads across his lower face. One day, he thinks, Sehun will smile back at him, and they will start over for real.

Around wintertime is usually their slowest days. _The Nutcracker_ has been branded into their skin so it’s not as big as a set-up in contrast to their other shows. Jongin pads down the hall with bare feet, his flats in hand. He waves to his fellow principals, who are all chattering in Cantonese when they give him a pat on the back.

The rest of the day is full of whispers and sore muscles. It’s already dark outside when Jongin wrestles out of his drenched shirt, balling it into a separate string bag for laundry day. Ten slumps down beside him on the benches across the locker rooms, singing off-tune. They’re both tired, but the mood is light at the end of the day.

“My roommate is out with her friends for the night.” Ten pouts, his accent drawling and his arm swinging back and forth. Taeil nudges him to move aside but he sticks out his tongue and blows. “Jisoo is always out with friends late at night. Do you think she has a boyfriend?” He shoots up, his foot nearly kissing Taeil’s jaw.

Jongin pulls the thick turtleneck sweater over his head. It was a gift from Chanyeol on his twenty-third birthday nearly a year ago, after he got sick so much from the chilled air. It’s much too big on him, but it reminds him of his boyfriend when he’s at the theatre. It falls over his hands in a fashion that Chanyeol secretly loves, with the turtleneck stretched up to cover the bottom half of his face.

“You should ask her on a date.” Jongin zips up his duffel, which is noticeably more lumpy after taking his laundry home. “Maybe a tour of the theatre or something. Or give her VIP tickets to the show.” Ten shrugs, his face a ruin of misery. He sits down beside him to give an encouraging hug.

“I don’t know, she doesn’t like me.” Ten groans, leaning his head on Jongin’s shoulder. He jerks back just as quickly as he leaned in, cowering close to an irritated Taeil. “Is Chanyeol going to get mad at me for leaning on you?” he asks in a horrified voice.

Jongin playfully punches him in the shoulder. “Relax, he doesn’t even work in the physio anymore.” Jongin slings his bag across his shoulders, getting ready to leave. “Anyways, I should get going, I think Chanyeol made dinner for us. Have fun in Myeongdong with Johnny!”

Jongin walks down the hall alone, but he’s all cheers and smiles. Maybe a little bit more than half of the theatre is still wary of a public relationship between two men, but he’s alright. Jongin’s friends are accepting, though some of them are anxious on where to draw the line of ‘what they can do’ or ‘Chanyeol’s territory’, especially after Chanyeol went into a foul mood when Taeyong teasingly slapped Jongin’s ass.

He sees Yixing in the corner of his eye, who is digging through his bag carelessly.

“Hyung?” Jongin carefully approaches him, shifting his duffel so it doesn’t sway as much. Yixing looks up, face blank before recognition sets in. “You going home now? Or staying for practice?”

Yixing shakes his head. “I’m going to go home. Sehun is,” he pauses, hesitation flickering over his face. When Jongin just nods ‘it’s okay’, he relaxes. “He wants to go for dinner somewhere, somewhere nice. I’ll practice tomorrow. Sorry but, uh, do you see my nicotine gum somewhere? I can’t seem to find it.” Yixing peers through his bag once more, his frown deepening. The garden boy had stopped smoking two years ago, but he still struggles with it sometimes.

He's a liar, if he says things aren't still awkward between them.

Jongin bends down and taps the side of the bag, in the small compartment. “It’s right there, hyung.”

“Ah, thank you.” Yixing fumbles with it to open it up, his fingers relaxing when he chews it up. When he falls in ease with his dazed eyes and shoulders relaxed, Jongin takes his chance to rip open his own bag and pull out an envelope. Yixing eyes it questioningly, his jaw stilling.

“It’s for Luhan,” Jongin rushes out quickly when Yixing takes it from him. “For next week’s show.”

Yixing smiles sympathetically. “Again?” he asks, though it’s not much of a question. He opens it to look at the contents, a small note and premium tickets in view. “Jongin, I know it sounds harsh, but you should give up. It has been three years.”

Jongin doesn’t flinch at that. “Please, hyung. You’re the only one who knows where he went. If he’s in Hong Kong somewhere, you’d know.” He folds his hands in front of him politely. “I’ll wait until he comes to one of our shows, just once, hyung. Just once.”

Yixing sighs deeply but doesn’t argue. “All these tickets go to waste every show,” he mutters. “I’m not sure why you still try, kiddo.”

Jongin zips up his bag and helps Yixing to his feet. He catches another bruise on the back of his hand, where flowers bloom on the garden boy’s skin. Yixing’s pointe shoes poke out of his bag; he’s the only male on pointes in the theatre.

“Because we’re family.” Jongin tugs on his sweater. “And I don’t give up on family.”

Yixing folds up the envelope and places it in his pocket, nodding solemnly. They bid each other goodbye, and go opposite ways in the corridor.

Jongin’s phone buzzes with its usual chime, and he fumbles with it a bit before sliding to accept.

“Hyung?”

“Jongin,” Chanyeol greets him warmly. “I missed you.”

“I saw you this morning.” Jongin pushes his hand on the door and makes his way out, the snow beating against his hair and burying itself in his clothes. “But I missed you, too. Are you waiting for me?”

“I’m going to go pick you up.”

“No, you stay hyung.” Jongin looks up to admire the Seoul lights in its artificial colors of blue and pink, the sound of honking taxis and students shrieking with laughter fills the air. “It’s not safe for you to drive in the snow. I’ll meet you at home, okay?”

“But I—”

“Bye, I love you!” Jongin blows a cheesy kiss into his phone before hurrying downstairs to the subway stop. He makes it just in time to stumble in it, the doors closing behind him. It’s mostly empty, except say for a few weary adults on their tablets or phones.

Sometimes, when he’s tired, he can almost see the three of them across the seats. Sehun and Jongin slumped against one another, heads bumping as they watch Luhan do his practices while holding onto the pole.

He blinks, and the image fades.

His stop comes quickly, and he waits for all the older people to leave before he hops off. The walk from Hongdae’s stop to Yeonhui is paved with quietude when it transitions into the different neighborhood. Parties and the indie musics of Hongdae are nothing more than a peep in the night when it comes to walking Yeonhui’s streets.

Jongin doesn’t mind much, because it keeps his thoughts in peace.

He passes by the bare spot where the soju tents would be in warmer days, the imagined sounds of the old men laughing in gruff tones with soju in their hands fill his ears even when it’s not there. It’s Yeonhui’s culture, embed in Jongin’s days.

The street lights wink down at Jongin when he makes it to the streets of houses, and people’s patios are lit with lanterns and early Christmas music. When he walks a bit closer by the little red house, he hears a child’s giggle chorused with adult ones.

Min Jun and her new husband Tae-Sun wave to Jongin with their gloved hands. Their little toddler claps when she sees Jongin, a snowman that is twice her size seems to smile at Jongin with its lopsided, rocky smile.

“Oh, Jongin! Walking home today?” Tae-Sun hollers, snow getting everywhere on his wife when he moves around to greet Jongin on the sidewalk.

“I always walk home hyung!” Jongin beams at the little girl, whose cheeks are apples from the cold and a bit of snow is still on top of her button nose. The porch is all fixed up with new paint, and three chairs for the small family. “Is Hyeri playing in the snow at this hour?”

Min Jun pats her daughter’s head. “She insisted or she’ll refuse to sleep.” Remembrance flashes across her face. “Oh, that’s right. You know the furnace that always keeps rusting and breaking? We just replaced it with a new one a few days ago. The noises it made used to scare Hyeri during the night.”

Jongin nods, looking back at the house. His chest swells, but only for a moment. _I closed that chapter,_ he thinks, _for the better._

“At least it’s a much more consistent heater?” he asks, and the couple nods. “I should get home, have a good night!”

Walking down the streets, Hyeri continues to giggle in the distance. The ‘HOUSE ON SALE’ sign swung in the wind in the yard for the longest time until the new couple inked their name on the dotted line. Jongin shuffles in his steps, thinking about Sehun who moved to live in the tall apartment buildings in inner Seoul. Perhaps Yeonhui-dong was too quiet for someone like him.

And maybe it was too loud for Luhan.

Nearing their home, which is a soft spring green in contrast to Yoora’s blue and the couple’s red. Jongin quickens his pace when he sees Chanyeol shaking at the front porch, a scarf wrapped around his face and nothing else except his sweatpants and sweatshirt.

“Chanyeol!” Jongin hurries to him, hands outreached to quickly warm him up. “What are you doing? Get inside, you’re going to get a cold.”

Chanyeol looks like a reindeer with his nose, and he has no choice but to follow Jongin when he unlocks the door. Jongin tugs the man into the living room where the heat is the most welcoming in their home. Chanyeol snakes his arms around Jongin’s waist and pulls him down on their sofa, earning a yelp out of him.

“I told you not to wait outside for me.” Jongin flicks his nose. “What if you get a cold?”

Chanyeol unravels his scarf. “I have a good immune system, don’t you worry.” He hovers over Jongin, mischievous eyes when he swoops down to kiss Jongin. His lips are plump and sweet, and Jongin can’t help but arch into it. “I missed you all day. I wish our off-days matched up.”

His hands are cold when they travel under his sweater, and Jongin shivers. His fingers trace over his skin and over his ribs, lips light on his and all the more teasing. Jongin pulls him down by looping his arms over his neck, legs entangled in his. The best thing about living in a house with just the two of them, is that they have all the privacy in world to love each other like this.

They break off, and Chanyeol blows a raspberry into his neck, breaking the mood. Jongin squeals, hands flying up to protect his ticklish neck. Chanyeol sits up so that he’s not laying on him, both of their lips glossy and red as usual. He pulls Jongin into his chest, rocking the two of them back and forth with _Sook Lee_ on the music player.

“How was the theatre today?” Chanyeol asks, raking his hand through Jongin’s hair. It lulls him into an almost sleepy phase, Jongin resting comfortably with his lover. “Preparations for _The Nutcracker_ are going well?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of boring, though.” Jongin looks up, bopping Chanyeol’s nose. “I bet the kids miss you at the hospital.”

Chanyeol shrugs. “Children have short-attention spans, I’m sure they’re going to forget about me and go after the nurses to play with.”

Rumors etched itself into scars in Chanyeol’s name, and work had been hard to come by for a doctor with false accusations lining up behind him. But a friend from medical school made sure he got into a children’s hospital in a quiet part of Seoul, where rumors are repelled and dismissed. It has been a little over a year, and the dark circles under Chanyeol’s eyes start to fade.

Jongin reaches up to tug on his boyfriend’s ears. The living room is decorated with nothing but Baekhyun’s art, as he had insisted if any other artist were to be on the wall, he would cry. Chanyeol had called him a whiner, but there has been no other art other than Baekhyun’s.

“Were you watching television before I came home?” Jongin asks, pointing to the rumpled blankets in his armchair. It’s Chanyeol’s seat and no one else, and he won’t dare let Yoora or Baekhyun sit in it, not even Jongdae who visits for a day out with his friend. Sometimes though, Jongin slips in with a sleepy Chanyeol in the armchair meant for one.

Chanyeol nods. “We should watch a movie together tonight.”

Jongin folds the blanket over the two of them. Chanyeol stuffs his hands into Jongin’s front pockets, snuggling together on the couch. The light in the middle of the ceiling is a creamy yellow, making them both look much younger.

“We shouldn’t,” Jongin says, pouting. “You need to drive early tomorrow morning. We both should sleep early tonight.” Chanyeol makes a noise of disagreement but is quickly silenced when Jongin tugs on Chanyeol’s hands.

“You’re right.” Chanyeol presses butterfly kisses down the side of Jongin’s face, all of them messy but endearing. “Up you go, I made dinner as Chef Park.”

“Carry me, hyung?” Jongin asks cheekily, nuzzling his nose into the base of Chanyeol’s throat. The older man doesn’t mention it much, but Jongin knows how much he likes the feeling of him touching his neck. Chanyeol secures his arms under Jongin and swoops him up. “Am I getting too heavy now? Or are you just getting old?”

“I’m rather ageless seeming for my age,” Chanyeol grunts, stumbling into the kitchen. Jongin’s mouth parts in awe at the cute setup of the table. “I set it the way you like it, all cute like those movies you always watch.” The main dish of _tteok-manduguk_ in a pastel bowl with the tiny dishes surrounding it, made during one of Baekhyun’s pottery class.

Jongin’s laughter runs through their cozy home as the two wash their hands.

Chanyeol fakes an injured puppy look. “What? Did I cook something wrong?” He peers over at the table, hurt pooling over his eyes. “If I did, I’m sorry."

Jongin shakes his head, pulling Chanyeol into a small side-hug. “Oh, no it’s not that hyung. But manduguk is for New Years. It’s barely the start of December.” Chanyeol sighs out of relief at that, ruffling up Jongin’s hair. Jongin chuckles. “Did I scare you, hyung?”

“Just go eat, you.” Chanyeol rolls up his sleeves, pulling out a chair for Jongin. “I guess spending so many years in Canada really pulled me out of Korean tradition.” He winks and Jongin’s heart never fails to flutter, even after all this time.

Jongin brushes his ankle over Chanyeol’s a few times over dinner, earning amusement and Chanyeol flicking a piece of rice in Jongin’s direction. They talk about Joonmyun and his alcoholic behavior these days, and Yoora’s clinic, which has been the talk of Yeonhui and Hongdae after Baekhyun painted the exterior as a project.

“You think Yoora is going to find someone one day?” Jongin asks, swirling his spoon around in the broth. “She’s nearly thirty-five, but she seems happy.”

Chanyeol scoops in more rice in both of their bowls. “I trust my sister and her romantic life. I think she’s happier when she’s in control of her life, and she’s at the peak of it right now.”

“Do you trust your own romantic life, hyung?”

Chanyeol’s eyes glints with humor. “You’re the only one in my romantic life, you doof.”

When dinner is over and the dishes are stacked in the drying rack, Chanyeol folds his hand over Jongin’s, pulling him up to their bedroom. It’s one of their most precious room, with their identities in every piece of furniture and art in the room.

By the windowsill is two pots of flowers, the vibrant colors of the leaves and bud makes Jongin feel all fuzzy inside. It has been alive and thriving throughout the cold Korean winter, and Chanyeol is forever in awe of all the roses and lavenders they grow every year.

Even at rock bottom, they can grow flowers and smile.

Jongin flops onto the bed like a fish. “I’m pooped.” He rolls around, pulling up the sheets along with him. Along the pillows are Chanyeol’s rilakkumas and Jongin’s pororos from Sojin as a Christmas gift three years ago. Chanyeol runs his hand over Jongin’s leg when he walks by, and opens their shared closet.

Chanyeol tugs on his collar and twists it over his head, revealing a toned back that makes Jongin flustered. He turns away abruptly, burying his face into Chanyeol’s pink rilakkuma. He hears the sound of clothes rustling and unzipping, until the closet doors shut and Chanyeol dives into bed with him, making the mattress bounce.

“Even after all these years, you still look away when I change.” Jongin, embarrassed, continues to stare at the stuffed animal as Chanyeol leans down to kiss his hairline. “You are adorable.”

“Stop that,” Jongin mutters. “Lets sleep early. It’s a long way to Busan tomorrow.”

Chanyeol nods and lays down beside Jongin, making sure he’s fully covered with the heavy blanket. “Did you wash up already at the theatre?” When Jongin murmurs a _yes,_ Chanyeol dims down their lights, careful not to elbow Jongin’s face when he scoots in closer.

“Hyung?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you scared?” Jongin asks. He draws circles with his finger on Chanyeol’s chest. “About going back to Busan?”

“It’s only for a day. I’ll be fine.” Chanyeol follows his trace. “I can’t believe Minjun and Jihee are graduating. They were barely fourteen when I last saw them.” Though the room is dark, Jongin can see how glazed over his eyes are.

“You really missed them, huh?” The streetlights outside gives some light in cluttered stripes. Chanyeol clears his throat and turns around. “It’s okay, Chanyeol. You’ve been strong all this time, you can let it go now.” Jongin supports his weight on his arms when he sits up.

A few weeks ago, Chanyeol had broken down in the middle of the hallway. Junk mails were strewn around him, with his hands shaking with a thin letter in his hand. Jongin was late for company hours that day, but he didn’t care. Collapsing right next to Chanyeol with open arms, the man had cried into his shirt with the two siblings’ invitation to their high school graduation.

The sun shines at rock bottom, and maybe it isn’t really all that bad down here at all.

Jongin holds him close. These days, it seems like all they ever do is hug each other and comfort each other’s blues. But that’s okay, because they’re together. Chanyeol stops sniffling and cranes his neck to look back at him.

And in that moment, Jongin falls in love all over again.

There are many different types of love, but Jongin can count them all of his fingers. He found love in the little red house that doesn’t belong to them anymore, out of a freak who raised two lovers of misfits. He calls that love _Luhan,_ and that love had ran away. There was love tucked away in yellow roses a few years ago, and Jongin remembers pricking himself on that love. He’ll call it _Sehun_ , and maybe he’s the only one that thinks of it as love. Jongin can climb up to Namsan tower and shout that he loved his two older sisters, but he’ll never get a whisper back.

But this love, this _love_ is a bit different. This love is the kind of loving he gets back, the kind of love that fits between a lover’s arms and kisses are honey sweet.

In the _Locker Room_ bar in downtown Yeonhui, where they shared diluted beer and sob stories of altar boys and sexualities, that was first time Jongin fell in love. When he threw himself at a broken man between crumpled blankets and children’s books, that was the second time. At rock bottom, where _Sook Lee_ played and the roses and lavenders slept, that was the third. In their new house on the edge of Yeonhui, with the bare rooms and stacked boxes of belongings, that was the fourth.

 

♕♕♕

“I forgot to tell you but,” Chanyeol holds up a white wrinkled paper bag. “I picked up your prescriptions yesterday.”

Jongin kisses him on the cheek as a _thank you,_ and pours himself a glass of water. It’s bright outside for a winter morning, and their overnight bags are sprawled across the table, shifting the tablecloth. Swallowing his migraine pill for the day, he taps on Chanyeol’s shoulder.

“We should go, I’ll go get our jackets.” Chanyeol nods and slings both of their bags over his shoulders, his glasses slipping off his nose when he goes through the mail. Jongin gets on his tippy toes to tug off their jackets off the hanger, the coats are thick and heavy and pool out of his arms.

When he gets back to their living room, Chanyeol is slumped in his armchair, his eyes dancing around as he reads a letter.

“What is it?” Jongin pokes him and folds Chanyeol’s coat over the chair. “You’re smiling.”

Chanyeol looks up and hands him the letter. “Kyungsoo sent me a letter. Said his junior high graduation is the week after, I guess we have to go to Busan twice.” He shakes his head, amused. “Busan kids are so old-fashioned, all of them and their mails.”

Jongin picks up the photograph attached to it. It’s a picture of Kyungsoo and a girl clutching his waist. He has owl-like eyes, and his brows are furrowed together making him look stoic. But the girl says otherwise, with her around him and beaming happily, the wind blowing in their face and their hair all messed up.

“He really grew up,” says Jongin, thinking about the photograph of Kyungsoo and Chanyeol in the car. “You must be proud, hyung.”

“I am.” Chanyeol rips open another envelope. “We should visit him there—,” he halts in his words, his face ashen and his lips thinned into a line. His hands trembling a bit before he steadies them.

Jongin looks at him worryingly, setting down Kyungsoo’s picture. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tries to peer over but Chanyeol shakes his head hastily,crumpling up the mail in his hand and stuffing it in his pocket. “Hyung? Are you okay?”

Chanyeol nods, swallowing. “It’s nothing, it’s just silly junk mail.” He coughs into his arm and organizes all the other mails into a stack. “We’ll go over them tomorrow, we should get going.” Though seemingly shaken up, he offers an affectionate smile and entangles his hand in Jongin’s.

Jongin frowns, but doesn’t ask any further.

Chanyeol wraps a heavy knitted scarf around Jongin, the material thick around his mouth,making him feel overwhelmed. Though cheesy, they have couple scarfs, thanks to Jongdae. It’s just as long on Chanyeol, who leans down to pull down the scarf and steal a kiss.

Rock bottom thrives with warmth and kisses.

On the radio, _Yanghayoung’s_ 가슴앓이 plays as a gentle buzz in the car. Seoul passes by in blurs of students and adults waiting at the bus stop. Chanyeol quietly sings along to the song, his eyes trained on the road and his hand thumping to the beat on Jongin’s thigh.

They go by the Seoul Theatre, with the building looming over their heads and the statues on the roof taunt and beckoning. It doesn’t scare Jongin as much anymore, not these days. His fingers reach up to the foggy window to trace a drooping smile across the glass.

Somewhere in between ash trays and Gods, Jongin found the secret to the ballet. It had never been about broken toes and laxatives hidden in dressing rooms. It had nothing to do with the haunting portraits of dead ballerinas in the hallway stuck between the 9th and the lobby. It’s not about heartbreaks and garden boys, and he laughs thinking about it.

Jongin thinks he’ll keep the secret, well, a _secret_ for now.

When Seoul disappears behind them, leaving back the skyscrapers and the arts, Jongin sees nothing but dirtied snow and signs in both English and Korean pointing to the next exit or nearest gas station. Chanyeol is on his second cup of coffee, and Jongin’s hand is on his before he can grab for his third at the next stop.

Busan appears in the distance with a welcoming sign of taxis and and icy ports. Chanyeol talks with nostalgia on the tip of his tongue, pointing out the _Gwangan_ bridge when they cross it.

 _Yes,_ Jongin thinks, _we have really crossed the bridge._

Winter is warmer here, and Jongin leans against the hood of the car with smoky-like breaths. Chanyeol is stretching beside him, looking out at the waters. Jongin doesn’t see much beaches out in Seoul, so seeing little kids in bulky coats run across sand pulls strings on his heart.

Jongin closes his eyes, his lashes light against his cheeks.

The wind beats against his ear, but that’s not what he hears. He thinks of warped walls and hand-holding in vintage showers, and shrinking paintings in local coffee shops. It’s not a bad thing, he thinks, remembering the spilled medications of beta-blockers and yellow pills that keep his vision unwavering. Jongin’s body can’t help but jolt at the distant thought of collapsing in violins and cellos, his thoughts failing him. To him, it's of a distant thought, that they played puppets before lovers.

It's been awhile, since Alice climbed out of the rabbit hole. Her hands all grimy and scratched up. Her smile bright.

“Jongin?” Chanyeol’s hand brushes his. A gaze full of nothing but love. “What are you thinking about?”

Jongin opens his eyes, and his vision is clear. His smile bright.

“Nothing, I’m just happy.”

  
  
_Fin?_

 

 

 


	25. 告诉他，我还是爱他。

The Cabin Drug Rehabilitation Center

Unit C, 12th Floor

Central, Hong Kong  


18 December, 2019

 

Park Chanyeol

Yeonhui-Dong 연희동, Seodaemun-gu 서대문구

Seoul, South Korea 120-829

 

To The New Lover,

 

If you’ve said that you like the way he laughs, or how lovely the curve of his lips are when he stifles a smile at a funeral—take a drink. If you think you want to tell him that his hands are carved out of God’s own ribcage, fingernails shelled out of glass from the Sistine Chapel, take a drink.

If you’ve finally decided to shout to the world—dare to disturb the peace—that you love him, keep your breath. And don’t forget to take a drink. If you really dare to send roses across five oceans, don’t, because roses die and he won’t jump a puddle for you. Take a drink, take a Budweiser and sit down.

If you strive to love him, go ahead. Be an alcoholic while you’re at it.

You’ve decided to love the way his brows furrow to make dents between skin, and his peachy lips that chap quickly when you’re not looking. His sharp curve of the jawline that he doesn’t tell you that it’s from all those laxatives and fingers down the throat. Go ahead and love the way his voice is strung up with cellos and violas. Go ahead and love that voice that screams more in the dead of night, when he thinks no one is listening.

Don’t forget to love the clothes that aren’t his, or the money gained from dancing on his toes.

But never forget to love the way he cries, burying a pretty face between calloused palms etched with ‘oops’. He likes to pretend he’s not a crier or a sinner. Love that about him, because it makes him human. Love the way he twitches his ear to instrumentals than the sight of music sheets. He doesn’t tell you that he can’t read clefs. Love that about him. Go ahead, and love his love for two dead sisters, who have moved on to their prime years where he’s stuck in the shell of childhood left by them.

(He thinks he’s still in fifth grade and following his high school sister around.)

Go ahead and take a drink, if you still love him now.

If you want to love the scars he gets from his perfections, take a drink.

If you dare to love his words, scripted and practiced words, take a drink.

(If you're in the hospital staring at IV fluid drops, you've taken too many drinks.)

Go home after you pay the bills, and take another drink.

  
With Love Darling,

  


 

P.S. Can lavenders grow in the same dirt as roses?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Research stuff**
> 
>  
> 
> All the places (bars, streets, cafes, neighborhoods, etc) are real. _Yeonhui-dong_ is right next to Hongdae as the more quiet sister district! Due to its lack of transportation (unless you take the five minute walk to Hongdae's train station) it's mostly off the radar. With all the indie coffee shops and one of the few neighborhoods with actual houses, I made that the home of my characters. It really is a lovely place!
> 
> Chanyeol was based off _Lewis Carroll/Charles Dodgson_ 's diary entries. The whole controversy with him and the Liddell children is a heavy topic but it's worth checking out. Of course, Chanyeol's backstory is not as intense as Carroll's.
> 
> Yixing's condition that causes his bruises is called _Type 1 Von Willebrand Disease_ . Hence, why the theatre called him 'garden boy'.
> 
> Jongin suffered from Todd Syndrome/Alice in Wonderland Syndrome, which is a rare neurological illness that hinders his vision and makes it seem as if he is hallucinating. It normally affects children, even though Jongin suffered from it for quite a long time.
> 
>  **Translations of the Korean and Chinese used**  
>  "로즈 머리." - "Rose Head" (Ch. 1)  
> "您将恨我." - "You will hate me." (Ch. 11)  
> "거짓말쟁이." - "Liar." (Ch. 11)  
> "我爱你, 我爱你, 我爱你." - "I love you, I love you, I love you." (Ch. 16)  
> "我的遗憾会陪你一生." - "My regrets will follow you to the grave." (Ch. 21, this is a wonky translation as it would've been too literal had it been directly translated.)  
> "告诉他，我还是爱他" - "Tell him, I still love him." (Ch. 25 title)
> 
>  
> 
> I tried my hardest with the ballet with tedious research, but I'm afraid I may have been off-centered with accuracy. I apologize for that. 
> 
> I may pick up where I left off with the Jongin and Tao scene at the church as a one-shot. What do you guys think? Let me know!
> 
> I do have plans for a side story that might be a full on fic, of course, probably not as long as this. It would be Luhan/Yixing around 10-11 yrs before RJ happened. I don't know really, but I have a lot of materials and pages full of notes. Maybe we'll see why Luhan stopped smiling at the age of 23. :-) Then again, it's probably best to leave this story alone (it has given me so many headaches for months lol)
> 
> UPDATE 2/15/17
> 
> If you really want to read Luhan's story arc that takes place four years after Rose Jardin, here is a sequel (?)
> 
> Sequel to Rose Jardin: [Daisy Boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9781181/chapters/21971402)


	26. Update

An update from Minhart,

 

I've decided to write a sequel to Rose Jardin!

 

It is called "Daisy Boy", following Luhan's life four years after rehab. He will revisit the darkest moments of his life and find Kim Joonmyun in order to make him answer the questions about his missing smile. In all of this, he bumps into the people from his old life he had wish to forget.

 

You can read the prologue that is up now [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9781181/chapters/21971402).

 

It's not as heavy as Rose Jardin, seeing as Luhan's time in rehab had helped him. Although, there is  **Major Character Death** in this.

 

:)

 

There are a few things different about _Daisy Boy,_ technical-wise.

 

  * This will be written in installments.



Meaning that, because I am a high school student, I can only write when it works best for me. Writing Rose Jardin with a deadline took a toll on me. Next year I will be taking three AP classes, so I hope to finish Daisy Boy before all of that.

  * This will be unbeta-ed for the time being.



Because this is not for a fic fest or anything, I don't know if I can find a beta. Plus, I think betas work best for me when I have already written the whole thing rather than in chapters. I will try my utmost best to proofread it!

  * The likeliness of this being written consistently is very little.



I'm sorry. :(

 

To Clarify... 

  * Yes, Jongin and Chanyeol will appear in  _Daisy Boy._
  * Baekhyun will appear again as a main character this time around.
  * Ballet is still a theme, although it will not really be as the  _central_ topic. (I'm not a dancer by any means! I'm afraid that the ballet lingo that I've researched would not be the same as if a ballet dancer themselves had written it.)
  * Luhan's letters over the past four years are featured.
  * I can't wait to kill off a character for once.



:D

 

 

Love,

 

_Minhart_

 

(Please spread the word \o/!!)

 

 


	27. Extras: Unrevealed Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was cleaning out my Evernote account and I stumbled upon my notes from two years ago for this work. I often come back to Rose Jardin and read the comments for motivation to write something new, and so Rose Jardin is always on my mind haha. I thought I would share these with you guys—some are plot points that I never included fully in the text, and some are conversations that I omitted. 
> 
> Have a lovely day!

**I.**

“I dreamt about you.”  
  
“Please don’t.”  
  
“I did, I dreamt about you.” Luhan laughs, and maybe he breaks a little bit inside. “We’d be the stereotypical _happy_ couple, I’d kiss you with your consent. I’d hold your hand and be gentle, and you won’t have to be ashamed of me. Because in my dream,” he pauses, and Jongin hears a giggle. “I was good, I was _brilliant.”_  
  
_But you are good._  
  
Luhan's voice isn't so pretty anymore. “Sehun was our neighbor, your best friend. He’d be our best man at a wedding, even if we can’t marry in this God damn country. We’d love and we didn’t do drugs; we didn’t have eating disorders and we weren’t so sad.”  
  
“Hyung...”  
  
“Let me finish.” Luhan rasps. “We’d be in love; you would have fallen in love with me, genuinely.” Jongin hears the rusty furnace that he had been so used to, back when he lived in the little red house. “Except, it had been in my dream because in reality, I’m not the one who gets to do all the loving with you. I’m not the one who kisses you anymore, and I’m not...” he coughs, and it sounds so bad. “I’m not Chanyeol.”

 

**II.**

 

 

 

"Every time I look away you just get farther away."

 

Chanyeol falls in love with Jongin's innocence. 

 

 

**III.**

 

”Penny for your thoughts?” Chanyeol blinks and laughs it off. “Sorry, that’s a western thing. 700 wons for your thoughts?”

“What’s a penny?”

 

 

**IV.**

 

Jongin fidgets nervously in the car.

Chanyeol had called him earlier on the whim of a date, saying that he has been missing Jongin. “I barely see you aside from dinner. I’m sorry, I fall asleep too early when you’re home. I’m going to make it up to you.” After he had hung up, Jongin’s chest swells like it’s their first date all over again.

After a couple of years, they both learned that they’re simple people. Five-star restaurants make Chanyeol anxious, and Jongin feels tiny in suits and ties. He’d much rather intertwine hands with Chanyeol on the streets of Myeongdong, buying silly, useless things like matching key chains or childish mittens.

He has a cup of coffee between his palms, still warm from earlier. Chanyeol must be tired, he thinks mournfully. He’d prefer Chanyeol to rest after working such long hours, but truthfully he’s also excited for their date.

Jongin nearly spills the coffee all over his lap when someone knocks on the window. Looking up, he shoots Chanyeol a withering look before it dissolves into a soft smile. Chanyeol grins cheekily, looking casual in a blue shirt and jeans. Jongin unbuckles and hurries out the car, greeted by warm arms that wrap around him.

“I missed you all day,” Chanyeol mumbles into his hair. Jongin chuckles and shifts the cup of coffee away so that it’s not pressed up against their chests. “The kids keep asking who the man next to me was in the photos when they were by my desk. I said it was my boyfriend, and they called you handsome.”

Something in Jongin’s heart flutters. “Am I handsome?”

Chanyeol pulls away. Jongin knows they get a lot of bad points for their relationship. Jongin is twenty-four now and Chanyeol is thirty-three. Most people don’t understand their relationship, but Jongin doesn’t mind so much. Chanyeol leans down to kiss his mouth, and it is nothing short of sweet and loving.

“You’re beautiful,” Chanyeol whispers against his lips, before looking down at his hands. “Is that coffee?”

Jongin nods. “I made it at home before I left. I didn’t know if you’d be tired or not. Are you sure by the way? We could go home and rest if you’re tired. Watch movies or cuddle or--”

“Stop worrying about others for once, Jongin.” Chanyeol takes the coffee cup from his hands with a gentle smile. Jongin frowns but buries his face into his boyfriend’s chest, and no one on the street bats an eye. “I’m fine. The kids made me happy today with their comments about me. My boyfriend really is handsome.”

Jongin reddens. “Stop, hyung.” Chanyeol’s laugh is deep in the air, and they walk down the streets together. Jongin looks down at himself. He got back from company hours, and feels plain in just a sweatshirt and faded jeans. Chanyeol downs the coffee happily, and everything feels warm.

It’s summertime, which means the street vendors are bustling on the street. Chanyeol offers the coffee to Jongin who shakes his head. Chanyeol likes his coffee more bitter than Jongin does. Tossing the cup away, he pulls Jongin closer to him, so that his head is resting under his chin. Jongin wraps his arms around his waist, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender.

“How was work? Other than the kids?” Jongin asks. They’re both heading to their favorite restaurant, which is a cozy place with pillows and low lights. They discovered it by accident when they just needed a place to hide in from the rain, and it has become a staple when it comes to outside food.

“It’s the usual. A new kid bit me.” Jongin’s eyebrows shoot up when he stops abruptly, making them both stumble in their steps. He grabs Chanyeol’s hand to see it a pororo band-aid wrapped around his fingers. Chanyeol laughs again, pulling his hand away. “It’s fine, Jongin. She was just nervous about the shot.”

Jongin brings it up to his mouth and presses a teasing kiss to them. Chanyeol reddens a bit but lets him. “Let’s go eat, hyung.” Jongin squeezes his hand. “You must be hungry.”

“How was the ballet? Is Ten doing okay?”

Jongin nods. “Things are slow, but they’re okay. Ten is doing fine, as well. He’s still scared of you.”

Chanyeol huffs. “I don’t do anything that should invoke fear.”

“You threatened him when he drunk-kissed me.”

“He kissed you.”

“It was on the cheek!”

Chanyeol sighs, but it’s short and sweet. They turn the corner and see the restaurant in the distant. Life has been different for the past few years, but Jongin has no quarrel about that. They live together, in one of those cinematic houses you see in rom-coms. He loves waking up with Chanyeol’s arms snaked around him, and breakfast isn’t lonely anymore.

“I was thinking next weekend, you and I can go shopping.” Jongin blinks, breaking away from his daydream. Chanyeol is watching him with soft eyes, and there is nothing but love in them. “I want to take you shopping.”

“You don’t have to.” Jongin smiles. The thing about being with Chanyeol is that he has the tendency to spoil him, even though Jongin doesn’t want that. “Are you sure? You don’t like crowded places.”

Chanyeol shakes his head. “I’m mostly over that now.” Jongin nods, and Chanyeol swoops down for another kiss. “I love you.”

Jongin loves being in love.

They enter the restaurant with Chanyeol holding the door for him. The restaurant owner is an elderly man who always sneaks in extra dessert pieces for the two. Mr. Kim heaves himself off his stool at the table and hurries over, eyes bright and his smile wide.

“Just in time! My daughter just came in for her shift, and she loves you two.” Mr. Kim smiles fondly at them, leading them to their usual table. It’s smothered in pillows and a blanket folded neatly on the side. Jongin gets all giddy, feeling at home. “Work still stressful, Chanyeol? And how about you Jongin? Are you eating healthily? You need to, in order to dance!”

“I’ve been eating well,” Jongin reassures him. “How could I not, with you and Chanyeol always on my back?” His tone is light, and it pulls a laughter out of the old man.

“Work is well, Mr. Kim. It’s just the usual kids coming in for flu shots.” They settle down as Mr. Kim hands them their menus. They’ve been here so many times that they have the menu nearly memorized. Mr. Kim excuses himself after patting Chanyeol on the shoulder, tending to another patron.

Chanyeol looks over at Jongin, who is unfolding the blanket and starts to wrap it around Chanyeol’s shoulders. Jongin giggles when Chanyeol makes a face, and buries his face in the crook of his neck, breathing heavily.

“I love date nights with you,” Jongin murmurs. “You still manage to make my heart swell.”

Chanyeol makes it so that they’re both under the thin blanket. He sets the menu down, and by now, all the customers are aware of the couple, who is a regular and like sons to Mr. Kim. He runs his hand down the side of Jongin’s cheek before cupping it, humming an old song.

“I wish I could give you these nights more often,” he says, his voice throaty and rimmed with guilt. “It’s just...”

Jongin nods. He understands. Hospital work has been eating up Chanyeol, and the therapy sessions on the weekends don’t leave a lot of room for nights out. But he doesn’t mind, because even when they’re all tired from a long day, Chanyeol still manages to find a way to make late evenings cozy with movies and cuddles.

“Don’t worry.” Jongin pulls away so that they can order. “Don’t be sorry, hyung.”

_No apologies._

 

**V.**

 

 

 

”You can kiss me. Sehun kisses me on the forehead, and Luhan kisses me everywhere.” Jongin tugs on his collar, because it’s a bit stuffy. “You can...kiss me, too. Anywhere, because you are my...friend.” He slips a hand under Chanyeol’s chin, catching some tears. “Chanyeol-hyung looks sad. Kisses will make hyung less sad.”

Chanyeol looks a bit sick. “You let...people kiss you? When they’re sad?”

Jongin blinks. “It makes them happy afterward.” He recoils a little bit, feeling a little bit wrong. “Luhan-hyung says he feels a lot better after he kisses me.”

 

 

**VI.**

 

"It’s okay to say no, Jongin. You know that, right?

 

 

**VII.**

 

"I read your letter. I'm sorry you still loved me."

 

"I'm sorry that you read it."

 

"Not that you wrote it?"

 

"No. I waited over four years to find it in me to write it. I will never be sorry— I will never disgrace my four years like that."

 

 

**VIII.**

 

 

 

 

“Don’t I taste like flowers?”

Luhan sits on the edge of the window sill, a church smile so practiced that neither of them bought it. “Yes, you taste like flowers.” Sehun looks up and blinks, and that sewn on smile slips away—replaced with a thin line of iron. “Why do you always ask me that?”

Sehun shrugs halfheartedly, tugging on the cheap curtains.

“I always liked Freud,” he reminds him. “I’m always asking questions.”

Luhan heaves himself off the window and curls up like a cat on the bed. It hasn’t been made in days, maybe because no one has the time or the energy to. Sehun looks over at him curiously, watching the boy with red ribbons tied on his wrists.

“Well, you’re wasting your sweet breath,” Lu says. “Because I’m not going to answer all of them.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t ask me anymore.” Luhan pulls a pillow into his lap, one that’s out of fluff and sags too much to be of any comfort. That’s why Sehun sleeps on his arm. That’s why Sehun doesn’t sleep at home.

“Do I taste like flowers?” Sehun tries again, face softer in hopes to lull the older man into answering.

For awhile, he doesn’t respond. He wonders if it’s the hesitation that sits between his teeth, under his tongue that would never speak another language other than silence. When five minutes have died on the clock, Sehun has taken it as that he won’t respond.

“No,” Luhan finally says. “Because I’ve never kissed you.”

“And would you?”

The church smile appears again, more strained.

“No,” Lu says easily. “Because I don’t like flowers.”

 

**IX.**

  
“If you all make so much money,” Chanyeol makes a grand gesture. “Then why this neighborhood? Why not closer to the Seoul core, with the rich and the richer?”

He sounds bitter.  
  
“Luhan took us in,” Jongin says with a sad smile. “I was with Sehun at first. I had two sisters, one was in rehab at the time and the other—” he looks away, “didn’t want anything to do with me. We were basically alone.”  
  
“How old were you two?”  
  
“Thirteen. We were students at the company’s sister school.” Jongin’s neck flares with heat, and he has no scarf to blame it on. “Luhan was twenty-two and wanted roommates. He and Sehun don’t get along, but we all are close. In a...”  _sad way._

“Why the fuck did you do that?” Chanyeol never swears, he’s good. He has a better vocabulary than that. “Why... _fuck_ , fuck!”  
  
“I’m...”  
  
Baekhyun stares at him warily. “When a dog barks, the other dogs in the neighbor barks without a reason.” He turns to Jongin, his usually bright eyes now slanted and shaky.  
  
No, _no_.  
  
“You’re just a neighbor dog.”

**IXI.**

 

There was a ticking. A tick. _Tock. Tick. Tock._ _Tick. Tock. Tock. Tock... Tick._ Jongin convinced himself it was the sound of delicate fingers tapping on his window.  _Tick. Tock._ It's not a clock. Jongin waited for Chanyeol to come home and tell him that his mind is intact.

So Jongin thinks.

He wonders. 

He hurts.

So he wonders—

—if that thin, Chinese ballerino ever existed—

There was a quiet knock on the door of his bedroom before Chanyeol walks in, his eyes hazy. Jongin's mind stops thinking. He stops wondering. Chanyeol smiles at him, his arms outreached. Jongin knows he can decide if it's an embrace or if Chanyeol is readying himself to push him. To reject him.

He chooses the former. Chanyeol sighs into his shoulders, and Jongin can feel the weight of unspoken words on his tongue and on his shoulder. So Jongin decides he won't tell Chanyeol of his wonders. Perhaps he will ask another day—whether—such a cruel—strange—man

Existed.

 

 

 


End file.
